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The Dublin University magazine 

William Curry, Jun. & Co 

4. '^^ 


£ihxwc^ of 

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%iUravst an) ^oUtfral S^oumal. 




/ ts'ooNATCD er Tim 

, > 9Wfl VOBIC »CaTY 







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5, B«Gh«loi1i.WaUc 

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HIST0B1C tableaux—No. i. thb 18th brukairs i 

EPISODES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. VI.—Tbb Nilk— Its .Crb^tioiv— Its Sovrou 
—Its Importaxok — Its Ixvhdatiofs— Its Statistics— Its Battlk. VIL — 
Maumovdish Cahai/— Battue op Aboukir— Attr. VIEL— Cairo— Its Port— 
ViBw FROM Without— WiTHiH— Thb Citadxl— Hkliopous— Palaob of 
Shoouia — The Slatb Markbt ....... * 


BFI0BAM8 86 

MESMERISM. Br Irys Hbrfvxr ........ Sr 

TO ENGLAND. Wrxttbv in Iitdia 54 

ARRAH NEILt OB, TIMES OF OLD. By O. P. R. Jakbb, Esq.— Cbaps. XYU. 
XVIIL XCC AVD XX. ......... 

OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY— No. XXXIV.— William ICaoinn, LL.D.— teirA oh Etching 72 







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5, BAchdorVWaUc 

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;€(y*E]*^^^} .. 


HISTORIC tableaux—No. i. the 18th brumaiu i 

— Its Importabcb— Its DfvnDATions— Its Statistics— Its Battle. VIL — 
Maumouoish Gahad— Battlb of Aboukib— Atvb. VIIL — Cairo — Its Port — 
View from Without— Withis—Thb Citadkl— Hsliopous-^Falaob op 
Shoolra— Thc Slatb Market ........ t 



MESMERISM. Br IRYS Hbrfrxr if 

TO ENGLAND. Writtbv ni Iitdia ........ 54 

ABRAH NEIL{ OR, TIMES OF OLD. Bt G. P. R. Jambs, Esq.— Cbaps. XVIL 
XVm. XIX. AVD XX. ......... 

OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY— No. XXXIV.— William Maoirn, LL.D.— leftA an Etching 71 







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A BEVT OF LITTLE BOOKS. Etiqcbtte for Ladis»— Etiqcbtte for Gentle- 
MEM — The Art of Co^versatioh — Wuist : its History and Practice, &o. 


xxu. AHD xxin 

EPISODES OF EASTERN TRAVEL. X.— Life upon the Nile. XL— Sokos of the 
Nile. XIL— Memphis ..... 

BABEL. By Mrs. James Gray .... 








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No. CXXXV. MARCH, 1844. Vol. XXIII. 




mSMERISlC. Bt iBTt HsBfusi. (Seeoodtttlole) » • • • 288 


GOKTHE*8 IPRiaENIA. TBAHSLA^iB^BY MiM Swaiwick .... 801 

ABRAH KSIL} OR, TIMES OF OLD. Bt G. P. B. Iaxbs, JBsq.— Cbaps. XXIT. 

XXV. XXVL XXVn. aito XXVin. ....... 818 

POEVS, Bt Mbs. Dalkbitb Holmu ...... .841 

ins HvMAirs Socibty. a Nvt vob »hb Lamdlord aud Tbvaict Coxmissiost 

A NVT BOB TBB Statb Tbials ...... 848 







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No. CXXXV. MARCH, 1844. Vol. XXIII. 



nsrr to thx sistbb islani^-cbaptbm y. tl m. ym. iz. x. xt . 969 

KiamniTSlff. Bt Iets Hbbviiii. (Scooadtttlde) . « • • 286 



ABRAH NEIL I OB, TIMES OF OLD. Bt O. F. B. Iaxbs, Eiq.— Cbaps. XXIT. 


FOEMS, Bt BIbs. Dalksitb Holmu ...... .343 









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No. CXXXVI. APRIL, 1844. Vol. XXIII. 








SCHILLER'S HERO AND LEANDER. By John Anster, LL.D. . . .452 




A3ID XXX. ... 479 

SOME NEW JOTTINGS IN MY NOTE-BOOK. First Gatheriro. By a Dreamer 488 


NUTS AND NUTCRACKERS. No. XI.— A NCT for the real "Liberator." A 
Nut for " Her Majesty's Sebyarts.'* A Nut for " the Traversers." A 
Nut fob " the Clucbinq Boys **....... 501 


CHIPS FROM THE LIBRARY TABLE. Bundle the Second . . .516 



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No. CXXXVn. MAY, 1844. Vol. XXni. 


CSJStSUB OF XBELAND ......... 631 





UTEBmS: ORIENTALES. no. v.— Ottomav Foitrt .... 636 



E88AT& Bt a« Ihtaud 673 


Ajm ZZXn. .......... 663 





THB BIBTH OF YENUS. BT Stditbt Whxtiho ...... 636 





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No. CXXXVIII. JUNE, 1844. Vol. XXIII. 

I jsssssss^sssssssssssa 





Rioni ......*.... 670 



I SIGH IN VAIN . . .687 

OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY. No. XXXT.— Thk latb Abraham Collbs, Eta.— «rtM 

OH Etehimg 688 


THE RICH MAN'S WARNING. Bt Mrs. Jamxs Gray 713 



Cooke Tati.or, LL.D. ......... 780 

BERANGER and his songs. Bt William Dowr 788 


INDEX 768 





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Vol. XXin. 

HI8T0B1C TABLBAOr X. — H ft:^ 

\ \ i ? \r 
THE ** 18th BBUMAIBE." i 

Iv the handsomest part of the Chaw 
see D'ADtiiiy sorrounded on every side 
by the splendid palaces i^id gorgeous 
mansions of the weal^iest inhabitants 
of Paris, stands a small, isolated, mo- 
dest edifice, more Uke a Roman villa 
than the house of some northern oa- 
pital, in the midst of a park — one of 
those pleasure grounds which the 
French, heaven knows why, designate 
at ^Jardin Anfflais." The outer 
gate opens on Uke Rue Chantweine, 
and here to this hoar you may trace, 
amoi^ the time-worn and dilapidated 
ornaments, some renmants of the 
strai^ figures which once decorated 
the pediment: weapons of various 
ages and countries, grouped together 
with sphinxes^and Egyptian emblems; 
the uint outlines of pyramids, the 
peaceful-looking ibis are there, among 
the helmets and cuirasses — ^the massive 
swords and the death-dealing arms of 
our modem warfare. In the midst of 
all, the number 52, stands encircled 
with a Httle garland of leaves, but 
even tbej are scarce distinguishable 
now, and the number itself requires 
the aid of faith to detect it. 

Within, the place speaks of neglect 
and decay: the shrubs are broken and 
oncared-fbr ; the parterres are weed- 
grown ; a few marUe pedestals rise 
amid the rank grass, to mark where 
statues once stood, but no other trace 
of them remains : the very fountain 
itself is fissured and broken, and the 
water has worn its channel along the 
herbage, and rijpples on its wayward 
course unrestrainiBd. The viUa is al- 
most a nun : the sashes have fallen in 
Vol. XXIIL— No. 133. 

in many places $ fhe^'rSo^'too, has 
gtven way, and fragments of the mir- 
rors which once decorated the walls, 
lie strewn upon the floor with pieces 
of rare marble. Wherever the eye 
turns, some emblem of the taste of 
its former occupant meets you — some 
fresco, stained with damp, and ereen 
with mildew ; some rustic bench, be- 
neath a spreading tree, where the view 
opens more bolulv ; but all are de- 
cayed. The inlaia floors are rotting; 
the stuccoed ceilii^, the richly-carved 
architraves fall in fragments as your 
footsteps move, and the doomed walls 
themselves seem scarce able to resist 
the rude blast whose wailing cadence 
steals along them. 

Oh, how ten-fold more powerfully 
are the mem<nries of the dead pre- 
served bv the scenes they habited wnile 
in life, than by the tombs and epitaphs 
that cover their ashes ! How do the 
lessons of one speak home to the 
heart, calling up again, before the 
mind's eye, the very images them- 
selves I not investing them with attri- 
butes our reason coldly rejects. 

I know not the reason that this villa 
has been suffered thus to lapse into 
utter ruin, in the richest quarter of so, 
^lendid a city. I believe some long 
contested litigation had its share in 
^e causes. My present business is 
rather with its past fortunes ; and to 
them I will now return. 

It was on a cold dark morning of 
November, in the year 1799, that the 
street we have just mentioned, then 
called the ^ Rue de la Victoire," be- 
came crowded with equipages and 


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Historic Tableaux. — No. I. 


horsemen ; cavalcades of generals and 
their staiTs, in full uniform, arrived 
and were admitted within the massive 
gateway, before which, now, groups of 
curious and inquiring gazers were as- 
sembled, questioning and guessing as 
to the unusual spectacle. The number 
of led horses that paraded the street, 
the long lines of carriages on either 
side nearly filled the way ; still there 
reigned a strange, unaccountable still- 
ness among the crowd, who, as if ap- 
palled by the ver^ mystery of the 
scene, repressed theur ordinary tumult, 
and waited anxiously to watch the 

Among the most interested specta- 
tors were the inhabitants of the neigh- 
bouring houses, who saw, for the first 
time in their lives, their quiet quarter 
the scene of such excitement. Every 
window was filled with faces, all 
turned towards that portal which so 
seldom was seen to open in general ; 
for they who dwelt there had been 
more remarkable for the retirement, 
and privacy of their habits, than for 
aught else. 

At each arrival the crowd separated 
to permit the equipage to approach 
the gate ; and then might be heard 
the low murmur — for it was no louder 
—of '^ Ha ! that's Lasalle. See the 
mark of the sabre-wound on his 
cheek I" Or, •* Here comes Augu- 
reau. You*d never think that hand- 
some fellow, with the soft eye, could 
be such a tiger." *' Place, there, place 
for Colonel Savary." *« Ah, dark Sa- 
vary ! we all know him." 

Stirring as was the scene without, 
it was far inferior to the excitement 
that prevailed within the walls. There, 
every path and avenue that led to the 
villa were thronged with military men, 
walking or standmg together in groups, 
conversing eagerly, and with anxious 
looks, but cautiously withal, and as 
though half fearing to be overheard. 

Through the windows of the villa 
might be seen servants passing and 
re-passing in haste, arranging the pre- 
parations for a magnificent dejeune — 
for 6n that morning the generals of 
division and the principal military men 
in Paris were invited to breakfast with 
one of their most distinguished com- 
panions — General Bonaparte. 

Since his return from Esypt Bona- 
parte had been living a life of appa- 
rent privacy and estrangement from 
all public affairs. The circumstances 

under which he quitted the army un- 
der his command, the unauthorised 
mode of his entry into France — with- 
out recall — without even permission — 
had caused his friends considerable 
uneasiness on his behalf ; and nothing 
short of the unobtrusive and simple 
habits he maintained, had probably 
saved him, from being called on to ac- 
count for his conduct. 

They, however, who themselves 
were pursuing the career of ambition, 
were better satisfied to see him thus, 
than hazard any thing by so bold an 
expedient. They believed that he was 
only CTeat at the head of his lemons ; 
and they felt a triumphant pleasure at 
the obscurity into which the victor of 
Lodi and the Pyramids had fallen, 
when measured with themselves. They 
witnessed, then, with sincere satis- 
faction, the seeming indolence of his 
present life. They watched him in 
those soirees which Madame Bona- 
parte gave, enjoying his repose with 
such thorough delight — those delight- 
ful evenings, the most brilliant for all 
that wit, intellect, and beauty can be- 
stow; which Talleyrand and Sieves, 
Fouch^, Carnot, Lemercier, and a 
host of others firequented ; and they 
dreamed that his hour of ambition was 
over, and that he had fallen into the 
inglorious indolence of the thred sol- 

While the greater number of the 
guests strolled listlessly through the 
little park, a small group sat in the 
vestibule of the villa, whose looks of 
impatience were ever turned towards 
the door, from which their host was 
expected to enter. One of these was 
a tall slight man, with a high, but nar- 
row forehead, dark eyes, deeply bu- 
ried in his head, and overshadowed by 
long heavy lashes ; his face was pi^e, 
and evinced evident signs of uneasi- 
ness, as he listened, without ever 
speaking, to those about him. This 
was General Moreau. He was dressed 
in the uniform of a general of the 
day: the broad-skirted embroidered 
coat ; the half boot ; the embroidered 
tri-colour scarf, and a chapeau with a 
deep feather trimming — a simple, but 
a handsome costume, and which weU 
became his well- formed figure. Beside 
him sat a large, powerfully-built man, 
whose long black hair, descending in 
loose curls on his neck and back, as 
well as the jet black brilliancy of his 
eye, and deep olive complexion, he- 

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The ISth Brumaire. 

spole a native of the south. Though 
his dress was like Moreau's^ there wa2s 
a careless jauntiness in his air, and a 
reckless "liandon" in his manner, that 
gmve the costume a character totally 
different. The verj negligence of his 
scarf-knot was a type of himself; and 
his thickly-uttered French, inter- 
spersed here and there with Italian 
porases, showed that Murat cared little 
to cull his words. At his left was a 
hard-featured, stem-lookii^ man, in 
the uniform of the dragoons — this was 
Andreossy ; and opposite, and leaning 
on a sofa, was General Lannes. He 
was pale and sickly ; he had risen 
firom a hed of illness to be present, 
and lay, with half-closed lids, neither 
noticing nor taking interest, in what 
went on about him. 

At the window stood Marmont, 
conrersing with a slight but handsome 
jonih, in the uniform of the chasseurs. 
Eugene Beauhamois was then but 
twenty-two, but even at that early age 
displayed the soldier-like ardour which 
so eminently distinguished him in after 

At length the door of the salon 
opened, and Bonaparte, dressed in 
the style of the period, appeared ; his 
cheeks were sunk and thin ; his hair, 
long, flat and silky, hung straight 
down at either side of his pale and 
handsome face, in which now one faint 
tinge of colour marked either cheek. 
He saluted the rest with a warm shake 
of the hand, and then stooping down, 
said to Murat — 

** But, Bernadotte — ^where is he ?" 

"Yonder," said Murat, carelessly 
pointing to a group outside the terrace, 
where a tall fine-looking man, dressed 
in plain clothes, and without any indi- 
cation of the soldier in his costume, 
stood in the midst of a knot of officers. 

" Ha I general," said Napoleon, ad- 
yancing towards him, *^ you are not in 
uniform. How comes this ? 

" I am not on service," was the cold 

** No, but you soon shall be," said 
Bonaparte, with an effort at cordiality 
of manner. 

** I do no! anticipate it," rejoined 
Bernadotte, with an expression at once 
firm and menacing. 

Bonaparte drew him to one side 
gendy, and while he placed his arm 
within his, spoke to him with eager- 
ness and energy for several minutes ; 
bat a cold shake of the head, without 

one word in reply, was all that he 
could obtain. ** What I" exclaimed 
Bonaparte aloud, so that even the 
others heard him. ** Whatl are you not 
convinced of it ? Will not this Direc- 
tory annihilate the revolution — have 
we a moment to lose ? The Council 
of Ancients are met to appoint me 
commander in chief of the army — go, 
put on your uniform, and join me at 

" I will not join a rebellion," was 
the insolent reply. 

Bonaparte shrunk back, and dropped 
his arm ; then rallying in a moment, 
added, " 'Tis well — you'll at least re- 
main here until the decree of the 
council is issued." 

" Am I, then, a prisoner ?" said 
Bernadotte, with a loud voice. 

*« No, no, there is no question of 
that kind ; but pledge me your honour 
to undertake nothing adverse to me in 
this affair." 

'' As a mere citizen, I will not do 
so," replied the other ; ** but if I am 
orderea by a sufficient authority, I 
warn you." 

" What do yon mean, then, as a 
mere citizen ?" 

" That I will not go forth into the 
streets, to stir up the populace — nor 
into the barracks, to narangue the 

" Enough ; I am satisfied. As for 
myself, I only desire to rescue the 
republic ; that done, I shall retire to 
Malmaison, and live peaceably.** 

A smile of a doubtful, but sardonic 
character, passed over Bemadotte's 
features, as he heard these words, 
while he turned coldly away, and walked 
towards the gate. " What, Augureau, 
thou here," said he, as he passed 
along, and with a contemptuous shrug 
he moved forward, and soon gained 
the streets. And truly, it seemed 
strange that he, the fiercest of the 
Jacobins, the general who made his 
army assemble in clubs and knots, to 
deliberate during the campaign of 
Italy, that he should now lend himself 
to uphold the power of Bonaparte. 

Meanwhile, the salons were crowded 
in every part, party succeeding party 
at the tables — where, amid the clatter- 
ing of the breakfast, and the clinking 
of glasses, the conversation swelled 
into a loud and continued din. Fouche, 
Berthier, and Talleyrand, were also to 
be seen, distinguishable by their dress, 
among the military uniforms — and her© 

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Historic T<Mecnm,^No. I. 


r might bel^ard tlM n^gUd doubts 
and fearsy the hopes and dreads of 
eacb> as to the coming events; and 
many watched the pale^ care-worn face 
of Boori^mey the secretary of Bona- 
parte, as if to read in his Stores the 
chances of success ; while the general 
himself went from room to room> chat- 
ting confidentially with each in tun^ 
recapitulating as he went, the phrase, 
** the count^ is in danger,** and ex- 
horting all to be patient, and wait 
calmly for the decision of the council, 
which could not, now, be long of 

As thej were still at table, M. 
Camet, the deputation of the council, 
entered, and delivered into Bonaparte's 
hands the sealed packet, from which 
he announced to the assembly that the 
l^pblative bodies had been removed 
to St. Cloud, to avoid the interrup- 
tion of popular clamour, and that he. 
General Bonaparte, was named com- 
mander-in-chief of the army, and en- 
trusted with theezecution of the decree. 

This first step had been effected by 
the skilful agency of Sieyes and Roger 
Duces, who spent the whole of the 
preceding night in issuinff the sum- 
monses K>r a meeting of me council, 
t« such as they knew to be friendly to 
the cause thev advocated. All the 
others received theirs too late ; forty- 
two only were present at the meeting, 
and by that fragment of the councU 
the decree was passed. 

Wh«i Bonaparte had read the docu- 
ment to the end, he looked around him 
on the fierce determined faces, bronzed 
and seared in many a battle field, and 
said, " My brothers in arms, will you 
standby me here?'' 

" We win, we will," shouted they 
with one roar of enthusiasm. 

" And thou, Lefebvre, did I hear 
thy voice there ?" 

*' Yes, general ; to the death I*m 

Boniq[>arte unbuckled the sabre he 
wore at his side, and placing it in 
Lefebvre's hands, said, '*1 wore this 
at the Pyramids ; it is a fitting present 
from one soldier to another. Now, 
then, to horse." 

The ^lendid cortege moved along 
the grassy alleys to the gate, outside 
whidi, now, three regiments of cavalry, 
and three battalions of the 17th, were 
cbrawn up. Never was a sovereign, in 
alibis pride of power, surrounded with 

a more goreeoos staff. The conque- 
rors of Italy, Germany, and Egyp^ 
the greatest warriors of Europe were 
there gprouped around hioa — ^whose 
glorious star, even then, shone hig^h 
above them. 

Scarcely had Bonaparte issued forth 
into the street, than raising his hat 
above his head, he called aloud, ** Vine 
la republique,''* the troops caught up 
the cry, and the air rang with the 
wild cheer. 

At the head of this force, surrounded 
by the generals, he rode slowly aloi^ 
towards the Tuileries ; at the en- 
trance to the eardens of which stood 
Garnet, dressea in his robe of senator in 
waitang to receive him. Four colonels, 
his aide-de-camps, marched in front of 
Bonaparte, as he entered the Hall of 
the Ancients — his walk was slow and 
measured, and his air studiously re- 

The decree being read. General 
Bonaparte replied in a few broken 
phrases, expressive of his sense of the 
confidence reposed in him, the words 
came with difficulty, and he spoke like 
one abashed and confused. He was 
no longer in front of his armed legions, 
whose war-worn looks inspired the 
burning eloquence of the camp— those 
flashing images, those daring flights, 
suited not the cold assembly, in whose 
presence he now stood — and he was ill 
at ease, and disconcerted. It was only, 
at length, when turning to the generals 
who pressed on after him, he addressed 
the following words, that his confi- 
dence in himself came back, and tljat 
he felt himself once more. 

** This is the republic we desire to 
have— and this we shall have — ibr it is 
the wish of those who now stand 
around me.** 

The cries of " Vtoe la republique,^* 
burst from the ofiicers at once, as they 
waived their chapeaux in the air, 
mingled with louder shouts of ** vive 
le general r 

If the great events of the day were 
now over with the council, they had 
only begun with Bonaparte. 

" Whither now, general ?" said 
Lefebvre, as he rode to his side. 

** To the guillotine, I suppose,** said 
Andreossy, with a look of sarcasm. 

" We shall see that,** was the cold 
answer of Bonaparte, while he gave 
the word to push forward to the 

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Episodes Qf EmUm Tr<ml. 






TW HOt I the Nile ! I haw its gathcriaf row, 
Ho Tialon now, no dnam of «»diit yean— 

Zkroaad oa tk< vodu neid the vfttery wer. 
The King <d Flood*, old Hoai«r*e Mile eppean. 

With senile cmlte, nia}e«tlc«Ujr nraet, 

Ctubinc the biUovy itawle that Ttz them at hie fiMl 


The spltlt or ov &UMn 
Shall start ftoea eray waire r 

Tvt the deck It was their Oeld of f;une, 
And ocean was their grare. 


** EoTPT is the glA of the Nile/' said 
one* who was bewildered by its anli- 
^uity before our history was born-* 
(at least be is called the father of H.) 
A bountifal ^h it was, that the 
** 8traDge> mysterious^ solitary stream" 
bore down in its bosom from the hixtu 
riant tropics to the desert. For many 
an hour have I stood upon the ci^- 
crowning citadel of Cairo, and gazed 
unweariedly on the scene of matchless 
beauty and wonder that lay stretched 
benealh my view. Cities and ruins 
of cities, palm-forests and green sa- 
vannahs, gardens, and palaces, and 
groves of olive. On one side, the 
boundless desert, with its pvramids ; 
on the other, the land of Goshen, with 
its luxuriant plains, stretching far 
away to the horizon. Yet this is an 
exotic land I That river, winding like 
a serpent through its paradise, has 
brought it from uir regions, unknown 
to man. That strange and richly- 
varied panorama has had a long voy- 
age of it! Those quiet plains have 
tumbled down the cataracts ; those 
demure gardens have flirted with the 
Isle of Flowersyf five hundred miles 
away ; and those very pyramids have 
floated down the waves of Nile. In 
short, to speak chemically, that river 
is a solution of Ethiopia's richest re- 
gions, and that vast country is merely 
a precipitate. At Pnstum one sees 
the remnant of a city elaborated from 
mountain streams; the Temple of 

Neptune came down from the Cala^ 
brian Hills, by wat^ ; and the Forum* 
like Demosthenes^ prepared itself for 
its tumult-scorning demiv among the 
dash of torrents, and Uie cram of 
rocks ;t but here we have a whole 
kingdom risen» like Aphrodite^ from 
the wave. 

The sources of th» Nile are as 
much involved in mysterv as every 
thing else connected with this strange 
country. The statue, under which it 
was represented, was carved out of 
black marble, to denote its Ethiopian 
origin, but crowned with thorns^ to 
symbolise the difficulty of approacl^ 
ing its fountain-head. It reposed ap> 
propriately on a sphinx, the type of 
enigmas, and dolphins and crocodiles 
disported at its feet. In early agei^ 
''caput quserere Nili?" was eqmvar 
lent to our expression of seeking the 
philosopher's stone, or interest on 
rensylvanian bonds. The pursuit has 
baffled the scrutinv and selMevotioD 
of*nM>dem enterprise, as effectoallv as 
it did the inquisitiveness of ancient 
despots, and tne theories of ancient 
phitosophera. Alexander and Ptofemy 
sent expeditions in search of it. He^ 
rodotus gave it up ; Pomponius Mela 
brought it from the antipodes, Pliny 
from Mauritania, and Homer from 
heaven. This last theory, if not the 
most sads&otory, is, at least, the most 
incontrovertible, and sounds better 
than the Meadows of Geesh, wher^ 
Bruce thought he had detected its n^ 
fancy in the fountains of the Blue 
River. This was only a foundr 
ling, however, — a mere tributary 
stream ; the naiads of the Nile are as 
virgin as ever. I have conversed with 
slave-dealers who were familiar with 
Abyssinia, as fiur as the Galla country, 
and still their information was bounded 
by the vague word, south— still froni 
the south gushed the great river. 

This much is ceitain, that from the 
junction of the Taccaze or Astaboras, 
the Nile runs a course of upwards of 
twelve hundred miles, to the sea, with- 

* Herodotus. f Elephontina. 

X For an account of the formation of the travertine, of which Pwstum was 
built, see Sir Humphrey's beautiful and imagiaatiye ** I.»ast Pays of a Philosopher." 

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Episodes of Eastern Travel. 


out one tributary stream — *'exemple," 
as Humboldt says, ** unique dans I'his- 
toire hydrograpnique du globe.'* Dur- 
ing this career it is exposed to the 
evaporation of a burning sun, drawn 
off into a thousand canals, absorbed 
bj porous and thirsty banks, drank by 
every living thing, from the crocodile 
to the pasha, from the papyrus to the 
palm-tree ; and yet, strange to say, it 
seems to poor into the sea a wider 
stream than it displays between the 
cataracts a thousand miles away. The 
Nile is all in all to the Egyptian : if it 
withheld its waters for a week, his 
country would become a desert ; it 
waters and manures his fields, it sup- 
plies his harvests, and then carries off 
their produce to the sea ; he drinks of 
it, he fishes in it, he travels on it ; it 
is his slave, and used to be his god. 
Egyptian mythology recognized in it 
the Creative Principle, and, very po- 
etically, engaged it in eternal war with 
the desert, under the name of Typhon, 
or the destructive principle. Divine 
honours were paid to this aqueous 
deity ; and it is whispered among my- 
thologbts, that the heart's-blood of a 
virgin was yearly added to its stream, 
— not unlikely, in a country where 
they worshipped crocodiles, and were 
anxious to consult their feelings. 

The Arab looks upon all men as 
aliens who were not fortunate enough 
to be born beside the Nile ; and the 
traveller is soon talked into a belief 
that it affords the most delicious water 
in the world. Ship-loads of it are 
annually sent to Constantinople, where 
it is in great request, not only on epi- 
curean, out anti-Malthusian grounds. 
The natives dignify their beloved river 
with the title of « El Bahr," the sea, 
and pass one-third of their lives in 
watching the flow, and the remainder 
in watching the ebb of its mighty 
tide. The inundation begins in May, 
attains its full height in August, and 
thenceforth diminishes, until freshly 
swollen in the following year. The 
stream is economized within its chan- 
nel until it reaches Egypt, when it 
spreads abroad over the vast valley. 
Then it is that the country presents 
the most striking of its Protean as- 
pects: it becomes an archipelago, 
studded with green islands, and bound- 
ed only by the chain of the Lybian 
Hills and the purple range of the Mo- 
kattam Mountains. Every island is 
crowned with a village, or an antique 

temple, and shadowy with palm-trees, 
or acacia groves. Every city becomes 
a Venice, and the bazaars display their 
richest and gayest cloths and tapestries 
to the illuminations that are reflected 
from the streaming streets. The 
earth is sheltered from the burning 
sun under the cool bright veil of wa- 
ters ; the labour of the husbandman 
is suspended : it is the season of uni- 
versal festivity. Boatmen alone are 
busy ; but it would seem to be plea- 
sant business, for the sound of music 
is never silent beneath those large, 
white, wing-like sails, that now glitter 
in the moonlight, and now gleam rud- 
dily, reflecting the firagrant watch- 
fires on the deck. In one place you 
come upon a floating fair, held in 
boats, flushed with punted lanterns, 
and fluttering with gay flags. In ano- 
ther, a bridal procession is gliding by, 
as her friends convey some bride, wiih 
mhrth and music, to her bridegroom. 
On one island you find a shawled and 
turbaned group of bearded men, 
smoking their chibouques and sipping 
coffee. On another a merry band of 
Arab girls is dancing to the music of 
their own wild song. And then, per- 
haps, with the lotus flower 

** Wreathed In the midnight of their hair,** 

or the light garment, that scarce con- 
cealed their graceful forms, folded as 
a turban, they swim from grove to 
grove, the quiet lake scarce ripplmg 
round their dark bosoms. 

Great part of this picture is of rare 
occurrence, however — the inundation 
seldom rbing to a height greater than 
what is necessary for purposes of irri- 
gation, and presenting, alas! rather 
the appearance of a swamp than of an 

As the waters retire, vegetation 
seems to exude from every pore. Pre- 
vious to its bath, the country, like Pe- 
lias, looked shrivelled, and faded, and 
worn out: a few days after it, old 
Egypt looks as good as new, wrapped 
in a richly green mantle embroidered 
with flowers. As the Nile has every 
thing his own way throughout his wide 
domains, he is capricious in propor- 
tion, and gives spring in October, and 
autumn in February. Another curi- 
ous freak of his is to make his bed in 
the highest part of the great valley 
through which he runs : this bed is a 
sort of savings-bank, by means of 

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The Nile — t^ Sources, S^c. 

which the dex)0sit8 of four thousand 
jears havo enabled it to rise in the 
world, and to run along a causeway of 
its own. 

Thi« sloping away from the river's 
edge mat^iaUy facilitates the irrigit- 
tion of the countrv, in which 50,000 
oxen, and at least clouble that number 
of men are perpetually employed. As 
1 shall have frequent occasions to re- 
turn to the Nilci in speaking of the 
commerce, the agriculture, and the 
mode of travelling in Eeypt, I shall 
only add here, the following statistics 
from the report of M. Linant, the 
pasha's chief engineer. At low water 
It pours into the sea, by the Rosetta 
mouth, 79,532,551,728— by the Da- 
mietta» 7i|03d,840,640 cubic metres, 
in every twenty-four hours, making a to- 
tal of 150,566,392,368. At high water, 
by the Rosetta branch, 478,3 17,838,960 
—by the Damietta, 227,196,828,480^ 
total, 705,514,667,440. The elevation 
of its waters below the first cataract, 
t. e. 250 leagues from its embrochure, 
i^ 543 French feet above the level of 
the Mediterranean, it runs at the rate 
of about three miles an hour during its 
flood, and two during its low water. 
The deposit of the river, of which the 
country is composed, yields by ana- 
lysis, 3-5ths of alumina, l-5th of car- 
bonate of lime, l-20th of ozyde of 
iron (which communicates the reddish 
colour to its waters), some carbonate 
of magnesia, and pure silex. The 
mean rate of accumulated soil seems 
to be about four inches in a century in 
Lower Egypt ; and about forty feet 
depth of soil has thus been ilongover the 
desert since the deluge. In the time 
of Moeris the lands were sufficiently 
watered, if the Nile rose to the height 
of eight cubits ; in the time of Hero- 
dotus, it required fifteen cubits ; and 
now the river must rise to the height 
of twenty-two before the whole 
country is overflowed. Still, as the 
deposits increase the Delta, the river 
is proportionately dammed up, and 
thus the great watering machine is 
kept in order by Nature, with a little 
assistance from Mehemet Ali. 

Formerly, when vexed by the arma- 
ments of a Sesostris, or the priestly 
pageants of a Pharaoh, the Nile re- 
quired seven mouths to vent its mur- 
murs to the sea. In modem times it 
finds two sufficient: Damietta, of cru- 
sading memory, presides over one, and 
Rosetta, in Arabic, ** el Rashid," the 

birth-place of our old fWend Haroun, 
takes advantage of the other. The 
former is waited upon by Lake Men- 
zaleh, where alone the real ibis and 
the papyrus are now found — the latter 
looks eastward on Lake Bourlos, and 
westward over Aboukir Bay, of glo- 
rious memory. 

'Tis an old story now, that battle of 
the Nile ; but, as the traveller paces 
by these silent and deserted shores, 
that have twice seen England's flag 
" triumphant over wave and war," he 
lives again in the stirring days, when 
the scenery before him was the arena 
where France and England contended 
for the empire of the East. Let us 
rest from blazing sun and weary tra- 
vel, in the cool shadow of this palm- 
tree. Our camels are kneeling round 
us, and our Arabs light their little 
fires in silence. They remember well 
the scenes we are recalling, though 
many a Briton has forgotten them ; 
and the names of Nelson and of Aber- 
crombie are already sounding faint 
through the long vista of departed 
times. We overlook the scene of both 
their battles, and envy not the Spartan 
his Thermopylse, or the Athenian his 
Salamis. What Greece was to the 
Persian despot, England was to Napo- 
leon ; nation after nation shrank from 
staking its existence at issue for a 
mere principle, and England alone was 
at war with the congregated world, in 
defence of that world's freedom. Yet 
not quite alone: she had one faithful 
ally in the cause of liberty and Chris- 
tianity, and that ally was — the Turk ! 

The bay is wide, but dangerous 
from shoals ; the line of deep blue 
water, and the old castle of Aboukir, 
map out the position of the French 
fleet on the 1 St of August, '98. Hav- 
ing landed Bonaparte and his army, 
Brueys lay moored in the form of a 
crescent, close along the shore. He 
had thirteen sail of the line, besides 
frigates and gun-boats, carrying twelve 
hundred guns, and about eleven thou- 
sand men, while the British fleet that 
was in search of him, only mustered 
eight thousand men, and one thousand 
guns. The French were protected 
towards the northward by dangerous 
shoals, and towards the west by the 
castle, and numerous batteries. Their 
position was considered impregnable 
by themselves ; yet when Hood, in the 

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Episodes of Eastern Travel. 


Zealooiy made signal that the enemj 
was in sights a cheer of anticipated 
triumph hurst from every ship in the 
British fleet — that fleet which had 
swept the seas with bursting saiis for 
six long weeks in search of its formid- 
able foe — and now pressed to the battle 
as eagerlj as if nothing but a rich and 
easy prize awuted them. Nelson had 
long been sailing in battle-order, and 
he now only lay to in the ofiing till the 
rearward ships should come up. The 
soundings of that dangerous bay were 
unknown to him, but he knew that 
where there was room for a French- 
man to lie at anchor, there must be 
room for an English ship to lie along- 
side of him, and the closer the better. 
As his proud and fearless fleet came 
on, he hailed Hood, to ask his opinion 
as to whether he thought it would be 
advisable to commence the attack that 
night ; and receiving the answer that 
he longed for, the signal for ''close 
battle** flew from his mast-head. The 
delay thus caused to the Zealous, gave 
Foley the lead, who showed the ex- 
ample of leading inside the enemy's 
line, and anchored by the stern, along- 
side the second ship, thus leaving to 
Hood the flrst. The latter exclaimed 
to my informant — " Thank God, he 
has generously left to his old friend, 
still to lead the van." Slowly and ma- 
jestically, as the evening fell, the re- 
mainder of the fleet came on, beneath 
a cloud of sail, receiving the fire of the 
castle and the batteries in portentous 
silence, only broken by the crash of 
spars, and the boatswain's whistle, as 
each ship furled her sails, calmly as a 
sea-bird might fold its wings, and 

glided tranquilly onward till she found 
er destined foe. Then her anchor 
dropped astern, and her ^e opened 
with a vehemence that showed with 
what difiiculty it had been repressed. 

The leadinff ships passed betwe^i 
the enemy and the shore ; but when 
the admiral came up, he led along the 
seaward side — thus doubling on the 
Frenchman's line, and placing it in a 
defile of fire. The sun went down 
just as Nelson anchored ; and his rear- 
ward ships were only guided through 
the darkness and the dangers of tlmt 
formidable bay, by the enemy's fire 
flashing fierce welcome as each arrived, 
and hovered along the line, coolly 
scrutinizing where he could draw most 
of that fire on himself. The Bellero- 
phon, with gallant recklessness, fas- 

tened on the gigimtto Orient, and waa 
soon crushed and scorched into a 
wreck by the terrible artillery of bat- 
teries more than double the numbers 
of her own. But before she drifted 
helplessly to leeward, she had done her 
work — the French admiral's ship waa 
on fire, and through the roar of battle, 
a whisper went that for a moment p&- 
ralped every eager heart and hand. 
During the dread pause that foUowed, 
the fight was suspended — the very 
wounded ceased to groan — yet the 
burning ship continued to fire broad- 
sides from her flaming decks — her gal- 
lant crew alone unawe^ by their ap- 
proaching fate, and shouting their 
own brave requiem. At lengUi, with 
the concentrated roar of a thousand 
battles, the explosion came ; and the 
column of flame that shot upward into 
the very sky, fer a moment rendered 
visible the whole surrounding scene, 
from the red flaffs aloft, to the red- 
dened decks below — the wide shore, 
with all its swarthy crowds, and the 
far off glittering sea, with the torn 
and dismantled fleets. Then darkness 
and silence came again, only broken by 
the shower of bliusing fragments, in 
which that brave ship fell upon the 

Till that moment Nelson was igno- 
rant how the battle wen^. He knew 
that every man was doing his duty, 
but he knew not how successfully ;— 
he had been wounded in the forehead, 
and found his way unnoticed to the 
deck in the suspense of the coming ex- 
plosion. Its light was a fitting lamp 
for eye like his to read by. He saw 
his own proud flag still floating every- 
where ; and at the same moment bis 
crew recognised their wounded chief. 
The wild cheer with which thev wel- 
comed him was drowned in the re- 
newed roar of the artillery, and the 
fight continued until near the dawn. 

Morning rose upon an altered 
scene. The sun had set upon as 
proud a fleet as ever sailed from the 
gay shores of France : torn and black- 
ened hulls now only marked the po8i« 
tion they had then occupied; and 
where their admiral's ship had been, 
the blank sea sparkled in the sunshine, 
and the nautilus spread his tiny sail as 
if in mockery. . . • Two ships 
of the line and two firiffates escaped, 
to be captured soon anerwards, but 
within the bay, the tricolour was flying 
on board the Tonnant alone. As the 

Digitized by LnOOQ IC 

1844.] Mahmaudish Canal^BaHle of Abaukir—Atfe. 

Theieaa approached to attack her, at- 
tempting to capitnlate, she hoisted a 
flag of truce. " Your hattle-flag or 
ooney" was the stem reply, as her 
aiiemy reuuded to, and the matches 
glimmered over her line of guns. 
Slowly and relnclantlyy like an exjmr- 
iag hope, that pale flag fluttered down 
from hiBT lofty spars^ and the next that 
floated there was the banner of Old 

And now the battle was over — India 
was saved upon the shores of Egypt— 
the career of Bonaparte was checked,* 
and the navy of France was annihi- 
ktei^ thou|fh restored, seven years 
later, to perish utterly at Trafalgar — 
a fitting hecatomb for obsequies like 
those of Nelson, whose life seemed to 
terminate as his mission was then and 
thus accomplbhed. 


** A«l kBows not If U b« thander, or » soand 

Of «courireidiiT*n Iiiboiir, or the one deep cry 
Of pe«^ fOTlefalBg— tbM thinketh, • I IwTe 
New waters, but I die.* '* 


** The blue steef bit, thro* helmet split, 

And red the harness painted ; 
The Tirvtns l«nir lamented it, 

tivX the dogs were well rootented 

With the sUogbtor of that day.** 


AaaivEo at Alexandria, the traveller 
ii yet &r <fistaBt from the Nile. The 
Canopic siouth is long since closed up 
by the mod of Ethiopia, and the Ari^ 
conquerors of Egypt were obliged to 
£vm a canal to connect this seaport 
with the river. Under the Mamelukes 
this canal had also become choked up, 
and her communication with the great 
vivifying stream thus ceasing, Alexan- 
dria lang^uished — while Rosetta, like a 
▼ampire,fedon her decay, and, notwith- 
standing her shallow waters, swelled 
snddenfy to importance. When Me- 
hemet Ali rose to power, his clear 
hitellect at once comprehended the 

importance of the ancient enporinm* 
Alexandria was then become a mere 
harbour for pirates — ^tke desert and 
the sea were graduallv encroaching on 
its boundaries — but the pasha ordered 
the desert to bring forth com, and the 
sea to retire, and the mandate of this 
Albanian Canute was no idle word — 
it aeted like an incantation to the old 
Egyptian spirit of great works. Up 
rose a stately city, containmg 60,009 
inhabitants, and as suddenly yawned 
the canal, which was to connect the 
new city with the Nile, and enable it 
to fulfil its destinies, of becoming the 
emporium of three quartera of the 
glooe. In the greatness and the cru- 
elty of its accomplishment, this canal 
may vie with the gigantic kbours of 
the Pharaohs. Three hundred thou- 
sand people were swept from the vil- 
lages of the Delta, and heaped like a 
ridge along the destined banks of that 
fatal canal. They had only provisions 
for one month, and implements they had 
few, or none ; but the pasha's command 
was urgent— the men worked with all 
the energy of despair, and stabbed into 
the ground as if it was their enemy ; 
children carried away the soil in little 
handfuls ; nursing mothers laid their 
infants on the shelterless banks ; the 
scourge kept them to the work, and 
mingled blood with their milk, if they 
attempted to nourish their ofi&pring. 
Famine soon made its appearance, and 
they say it was a fearful si^ht, to see 
that great multitude convulsively work- 
ing agidnst time. As a dying horse 
bites the ground in his agony, they 
tore up thatgreatgrave — 30,000 people 
perished, but the grim contract was 
completed, and in six weeks the waters 
of the Nile were led to Alexandria. 
The canal is forty-ei^t miles in length, 
ninety feet in breadth, and eighteen in 
depth ; it was finished altogether in 
ten months, with the exception of the 
lock which should have connected it 
with the river; the bey who had 
charge of this department lost his con- 
tract and his head 

We embarked in a boat not unlike 
those that ply upon the Grand Canal, 
and, to say the truth, among the dreary 

* Le principal but de I'expedition des Fran^ais d'Orient etait d'abaisser la 
puissance An^laise. C'est du Nil quo devait partir Tarmee qui allait donner de 

nouTelles destmees aux Indes Les Fran9ais one fois maitres des port 

de Corfou, de Malte et d'Alexandrie, la Mediterran4e devenait un lac Francais.— 
Memoirs de Napoleon. 

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Episodes of Eastern Travel. 


wastes of swamp that surrounded us> 
we might also ha?e fancied ourselves 
in the midst of the Bog of Allen. The 
hoat was towed by four wild, scraggy- 
looking horses, ridden bj four wilder, 
scraggier-looking men — their naked 
feet were stuck in shovel stirrups, with 
the sharp sides of which thej scored 
their horses* flanks, after the fashion 
of crimped cod. It is true, these 
jockies wore tattered turbans instead 
of tattered hat8, and loose blue gowns 
instead of g^ej frize. Yet, still there 
was something very dis-illusionizing in 
the^ whole turn-out — and the mud 
cabins that here and there encrusted 
the banks did not tend to obliterate 
Tipperary associations. But — holdl 
there is a palm-tree, refreshing to the 
cockney's eye; an ostrich is trotting 
along the towing-path ; from a patch 
of firm ground a camel rears its me- 
lancholy head ; and, by Jove ! there 
goes a pelican I We must be in Africa, 
or else a menagerie has broken loose 
from Tullamore. 

We pass, for some miles, along a 
causeway that separates the salt-water 
Lake Madee from Lake Mareotis. 
Nothing can be more desolate than the 
aspects of these two lonely lakes, 
stretching, with their low swampy 
shores, away to the horizon. If Alastor, 
or the spirit of solitude, was fond of 
yachting, these waters would be the 
very place for him to cruise in, un- 
disturbed, except by the myriads of 
wild fowl that kept wheeling, shriek- 
ing, and whistling round us. These 
lakes seem to have been bom for one 
another ; but the Pharaohs, like poor- 
law guardians, saw fit to separate thcro. 
Their object, however, the reverse of 
the said poor law, was to make Ma- 
reotis fruitful. A vast mound was 
raised, which kept the salt-lake at a 
respectful distance, and until the Eng- 
lish invasion in 1801, or at least until 
the sixteenth century, the greater part 
of Mareotis was a fertile plain. . . 

Bonaparte, after having defeated 
the Mamelukes at the Pyramids, had 
taken possession of Cairo. Having 
denied Christ in Europe, he acknow- 
ledged Mahomet in Asia ; having but- 
chered his prisoners at Jaffa, he was 
defeated by the Butcher* Pasha and 
Sir Sydney Smith, at Acre ; having 
poisoned part of that army whom he 

called his children, he starts for Paris, 
and left the remainder to encounter 
alone, those 

** Stnrmt that nri ght rdl hia feme'i asoeadlBff 

That reminder occupied Cairo, under 
the gallant and ill-fated Kleber. He 
had accepted terms of capitulation from 
the Turks, which Lord Keith refused 
to ratify. The moment Sir Sydney 
Smith learned the English admiral's 
determination, he took upon himself 
to inform Kleber of the met, and to 
advise him to hold his position. The 
Turks exclaimed against this chival- 
rous notice as a treachery, and there 
were not a few found in England to 
echo the same cry ; but the spirit which 
dictated the British sailor's act was 
understood in the deserts — a voice went 
forth among the tents of the Bedouin 
and the palaces of the despot, that 
England preferred honour to advan- 
tage. Battles, since then, have been 
fought, and been forgotten — nations 
have come and gone, and left no trace 
behind them — but the memory of that 
noble truthfulness remained, and ex- 
panded into a national characteristic ; 
and our countrymen may, at this hour, 
in the streets of Cairo, hear the Arabs 
swear ** by the honour of an English- 

Kleber was assassiniited hy a fanatic, 
instigated by those priests whose faith 
he had offered to profess. The inca- 
pable Menon succeeded to the com- 
mand. Abercrombie anchored in 
Aboukir Bay on the 2d of March, 
1801, but was prevented from disem- 
barking, by a continued gale of wind, 
until the 8th. Soon after midnight, a 
rocket from the admiral's ship g^ve 
the signal for landing — and the boats, 
crowded with 6,000 troops, formed in 
such order as they could maintain on 
the yet stormy sea. Then, through 
the clear silence of the night, the or<kr 
was given to advance, and the deep 
murmur of a thousand oars made 
answer to the cheer that urged them 
on. It was morning before they ap- 
proached the shore, which blazed with ^ 
the fire of the French troops and their ^ 
protecting batteries — but on they went, \^ j 
as reckless as the breeze that wafted V 

them, till the boats took ground, and i • 

(hen leapt upon the bayonets of the V 

• Djezzar — ^in Arabic, a butcher. 

t Sir John Hanmcr. \ 

Digitized by Google ^ 

1^.] Mahmoudish Canal— Battle of Ahoukir—Atfe. 


French, adrancing through the surf to 
meet them. The foam soon changed 
its colour as they fought among the 
very wayesy hut nothmg could stand 
the British onset long. The 23d, and 
the flank companies of the 40th, drove 
the enemy hefore them, and received 
and broke a charge of cavalry with the 
bayonet. The sailors, harnessing them- 
selves to the field artillery, dragged it 
through the heavy sands, under the 
fire of the French batteries, to whose 
roar they replied with loud and trium- 
phant cheers. The British troops now 
rushed on to the mouths of the cannon, 
sw«pt the artillery men from their 
posts, carried the batteries with the 
bayonet, and stood conquerors on the 
Egyptian shore. On the 13th, a san- 
guinary engagement took place, with- 
out any result of importance. On the 
2ist, the English occupied a line ex- 
tending from the spot we are now 
sailing over to where the sea glistens 
yonder, about a mile away. Their 
right flank was covered by a flotilla of 
gun-boats, under Sir Sydney Smith — 
the left, by redoubts. The French 
had partly restored the ancient lines 
of circumvallation, near Alexandria, 
which Sir Ralph Abercrombie was 
preparing to storm, when the enemy's 
confidence and impetuosity induced him 
to abandon his strong position, and 
advance to meet the British in yonder 
plain, where a few palm-trees still 
mark the ground they occupied. I 
need not tell the results of that glo- 
rious day. The 42d Highlanders and 
the gallant 28th regiment there won 
the proud name which they have since 
borne stainless through many a bloody 
field. The seaman there fought side 
by side in generous rivalry with the 
soldier — ^in a word, there Abercrombie 
conquered, and there Abercrombie 

■* Sw^t In manner, fair In faronr, 
Mild in tamper, teroe In flgliti 
Warrior nobler, gentler, braver. 
Never sliaU beliold ttie light*' 

The command devolved upon Lord 
Hutchinson, a worthy successor of 
his gallant friend. The powerfully 
written, manly, and feeling dispatch, 
in which he announced the victory 
of Aboukir, and the death of Aber- 
crombie, is, perhaps, as fine a composi- 
tion as our inilitary records can supply. 
On the arrival of Sir David Baird 
from India, by Cosseir and the Nile, 
Lord Hutchinson advanced upon Alex- 

andria, which capitulated, [and soon 
afterwards Egypt was abandoned both 
by conquered and conquerors to the 
Moslem. It was in this last advance 
that the embankment was cut by the 
British army. Six dykes were opened, 
but the intermediate banks soon gave 
way, and the sea burst freely into lake 
Mareotis, submerging forty Arab vil- 
lages with their cultivated lands. It 
was. seventy days before the cataract 
subsided into a strait. The sea is now 
once more banked out by the cause- 
way on which the Mahmoudish canal 
is carried to Alexandria, and Mehemet 
Ali intends to drain the lake, and 
again to restore it to cultivation ; but 
the ruin which the hand of man, '< so 
weak to save — so vigorous to destroy," 
effected in a few hours, it will take 
many years to restore. 

Gentle reader, we are done with 
war — and if you should add, ** time 
for us," I can only sa^, that I felt 
bound to account for this unpleasant- 
looking lake, on whose banks I have 
so long detained you, and, more truly, 
that I was fain to add my pebble to 
the cairn upon Abercrombie^s grave. 

It was midnight when we arrived 
at Atfe, the point of junction with the 
Nile — and a regular African storm^ 
dark and savage, was howling among 
the mud-built houses, when we disem- 
barked there, ankle deep in slime. A 
crowd of half-naked swarthy Arabs, 
with flaring torches, looked as if they 
were welcoming us to the realms of 
darkness, jabbering and shouting vio- 
lently, in chorus with the barkin? of 
the wild dogs, the roaring of the wind, 
and the growling of the camels, as a 
hail-storm of boxes and portmanteaus 
was showered on their backs ; donkies 
were braying, women shrieking, Eng- 
lishmen cursing sonorously, and the 
lurid moon, as sne hurried through the 
clouds, seemed a torch waved by some 
fury, to light up this scene of infernd 
confusion. My friend and I fought 
our way through the demon crowd, 
gave some of the ban dogs reason for 
their howling, and, losing our way in 
an enclosure, stumbled over one of the 
only two pigs in the Land of Ham« 
These unclean animals, are kept by 
a Frenchman, who magnanimously 
prefers pork to popularity, and is about 
to establish an hotel in this most dia- 
bolical village, it has ever been my lot 
to enter. Marvelling whether we 
should ever be restored to any of our 

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Episodes of Eastern Travel. 

loggagtfy we groped our way throiwh 
Meefnag Arabs and kneeliDg oameTs, 
and fonndy to our pleased amazement, 
that our bagpee, which i^peared to 
scatter as widely and as suddenly as 
a burst rocket, was piled upon the 
deck uninjured, and our big-breeched 
servants were smoking on the port- 
manteau pyramids, as apathetically as 
two sphinxes ..... 

We are now upon the sacred river 

but it is too dark to see its waters 
g]eam_and the shriekmff of the 
steamer prevents us from bearing its 
waters flow. Alas I alas I— What a 
paragraph I And, is it possible, ye 
Nwads of the Nile, that your deified 
stream is to be harrowed up by a 
greasy, grunting steam-ship, like the 
pu- venue rivers of vulgar Europe? 
That stream— that, gushing from be- 
yond the emerald mountains, scatters 
gold around it in its youth — that has 
borne the kings of India to worship at 
ancient Meroe — that has murmured 
beneath the cradle of Moses, and 
Ibamed round the golden prow of 
Cleopatra's barge ! Unhappy river 1 
Thou, who in thy warm youth hast 
loved the gorgeous clouds of iEthiopia, 
must thou now expiate thy raptures, 
like Izion, on the wheel ? Yes, for 

thy old days of glory are gone by 

thy veil of mystery is rent away, and 
with many another sacriiicial victim of 
the ideal to the practical, thou must, 
forsooth, become useful, and respec- 
table, and convey cockneys. They 
call thv steamy torturer the Lotus, 
too— adding insult to deep injury ; a 
pretty specunen of thy sacred flower, 
begrimed with soot, and bearing fifty 
tons of Newcastle coal in its calyx I 

We were soon fizzing merrily up the 
stream, and after a night spent upon 
the hard boards in convulsive efforts 
to sleep, that were more fatiguing 
than a fox-hunt, we hurried on deck 
to see the sun shine over this renowned 
river. Most I confess it? We could 
see nodiing, but high banks of dark 
mud, or swamps of festering slim^— 
even the dead buffaloe, that, lay rot- 
ting on the river's ec^e, with a pretty 
sprinkling of goitrous looking vultures, 
scarcely repaid one for leaving Europe. 
In some hours, however, we emerged 
from the Rosetta brandi, on which 
we had hitherto been boiling our way 
to the great river, and henceforth the 
prospect began to improve. Villages 
AheHered by graceful groups of palm. 


trees, mosques, santon's tombs, green 
plains, and at length the desert— 
the most imposing sight in the world, 
except the sea. The day past slowly— 
the view had Uttle variety— the wild 
fowl had ascertained the range of an 
English fowling-piece ; the dinner was 
as cold as the climate would permit— 
the plates had no knives and forks, 
and an interesting-looking lady had a 
drumstick between her teeth, as I 
pointed out to her the scene of the battle 
of the Pyramids, which now rose upon 
our view. That sight restored us to 
good humour, we felt we were actually 
in Egypt— the bog of Allen, the canal- 
boat, the cockney steamer itself, foiled 
to counteract the effect produced upon 
us by those man-made mountdns, girt 
round with forests of palm trees. As 
the sun and the champagne went down, 
our spirits rose, and by the time the 
erening and the mist had rendered the 
country invisible, we had persuaded 
ourselves that Egypt was, indeed, the 
lovely land that Moore has so delight- 
fully imagined in the pages of the 
** Epicurean." 

CAiao— rrs port— view prom without 


While for u Bight can retMih. b«mest^ as dew 
And blue a Wen as ever laeeaed thU sphefe, 
2V«**t?i*M5**"»'*«**' and guttering domee. 
Andhfert.builttem|>le8,fittobethelionie« * 

Oatlastt all time abore the water's tovrer. 


MoRNiNo found US aachored off 
Boulac, the port of Cairo. Toward 
the river it is faced by factories and 
storehouses, within you find yourself 
in a labyrinth of brown narrow streets 
that resemble rather rifts in some mud 
mountain, than any thing with which 
architecture has to do. Yet here and 
there the blankness of the walls is bro- 
ken and varied by richly woriced lat- 
tices, and specimens of arabesque 
masonry. Gaudy bazaars strike the 
ejeand relieve the gloom — and the 
picturesque population that swarms 
every where keeps the interest awake. 
On emerging irom the lanes of 
Boulac, Cairo, Grand Cairo I opens 
on the view, and never yet did fimcy 

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Cairo — Us Paris, S^e. 


upon the poet's eje a more 

SDperb Qliuion of power and beauty 
than the **city of Victory"* presents 
from a distance. The Mid range of 
the Mokattam moontains is pnrpled by 
the ristne sun — its craggy summits 
are cot dearly out against the glow- 
ing sky — ^it nms like a promontory 
into a sea of the richest Terdure> here 
wavy with a breezy plantation of 
ofivesy th^e darkened with acacia 
groves. Just where the mountain sinks 
upon the plain^ the citadel stands upon 
its last eminence^ and^ widely spread 
beneath it» lies the city, a forest of 
imnarets with palm trees intermin- 
gledy and the domes of innumerable 
mofsques rising} like enormous bubbles, 
over the sea of houses. Here and 
there richly green gardens are islanded 
widun that sea, and the whole is girt 
rovnd wi A picturesquetowers and nun- 
partsyoocasionally revealed through vis- 
tM &t the wood of sycamores and fig- 
trees that surround it. It has been 
said that'* God the first garden made, 
and the first ci^ Cain ;** but here they 
seem commingled with the haf^iest 
effMt. The approach to Cidro is a 
spadons avenue lined wi^ the olive or 
tiie sycamore ; here and there ^be white 
narble of a fountain gleams through 
the foliage, or a palm-tree waves its 
phtmy h^ above the santon^s tomb. 
Akmg this highway a Biasquerading 
looldp^ crowd is swarming towards 
the city — ^ladies wrai^ped closely in 
white veilB, women of tiie lower class 
earryiiw water on their heads, and 
eovered only with a long blue gar- 
mart tiiat reveals, but too plainly, an 
exquisite symmetrv in the young, and 
ahi4eons deformity in tbie elders— 
tinre are camels perched upon by 
IMk slwvefl, magpied with white nap- 
Idos roimd their head and loins— there 
spt portiy merohantSy wi& turbans 
and rang pipee» gravdv smoking on 
iMr kDOwiBg4o«« donnes — here an 
Arab dadies tfaro«£^ the erow^datfyi 
nllop, «r a Buropean still more 
nq^fatfly dioveB aside the poiiqx>wB- 
leokiiig bearded throi^. Water-Kuurri- 
wr^etimAt/nf Anaeniam, barbers, all 
the dramatk pertanm of ^ Arabian 
If%fats are wre. And now we reach 
tiieci^ wall, withits towers a sstroag as 
nrad can make them. It must not be 

supposed that this mud architecture is 
of the same nature that one associates 
with tiie word in Europe. No I Over- 
diadowed by palm-trees, and a crim- 
son banner with its crescent waving 
from the battlements, and camels 
couched beneath its shade, and swar- 
thy Egyptians, in gorgeous apparel, 
leaning against it, make a mud wall 
appear a very respectable fortification 
in this land of illusion. 

And now we are within the city I 
Protean powers I what a change I A 
labyrinth of dark, filthy, intricate 
lanes and alleys, in which every smell 
and sight, from which the nose and 
eye revolt, meet one at every turn, 
and one is always turning. The state- 
liest streets are not above twelve feet 
wide, and as the upper stories arch 
over them toward one another, only a 
narrow serpentine seam of blue sky 
appears between the toppling veran- 
dahs of the winding streets. Occa- 
sionally a string of camels, bristlmg 
with faggots of firewood, sweeps ti^e 
streets as effectually of passengers, as 
the machine which has superseded 
chunnnies does a chhnney of its soot 
— ^lean mangy dogs are continualiy 
running between your lees, which af- 
ford a tempting passage in this petti- 
coated place — beggars, in rags, quiver- 
ing with vermin, are lying in every 
comer of the street — now a bridal, or 
a circumcizing procession, squeezes 
along, vrith music that might madden 
a drummer — now the running foot- 
men of some bey or pasha* endea- 
vour to jostle you towards the wall, 
unless they recognise you as an Eng- 
lishman — one of that race whom they 
think the devil can't friehten or teach 
manners to. Notwiustanding all 
these annoyances, however, the streets 
of Cidro present a source of unceadng 
amusement and curiosity to the stran- 
ger. It has not so purelv an oriental 
diaracter as Damascus ; but the inter- 
mixture of Europeans gives it a cha- 
racter of its own, and affords far 
wider scope for adventure than the se- 
cluded and solemn capital of Syria 
— ^the bazaars are very vivid and va- 
ried, and each is devoted to a peculiar 
class of oommodities-^thus you have 
the Turkish, tiie Persian, the Frank 
baaaars ; the armourers', the weavers*. 


" El Kahira," the Arabic epithet of this city, means " the Victorious"— whence 
word Cairo— in Arabic "Misr." 

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Episoies of Ecutern Travel, 


the jewellers* quarters. These bazaars 
are, for the most part» covered in» and 
there is a cool and quiet gloom about 
them which is very refreshing ; there 
is also an air of profound repose in the 
turbaned merchants as they sit cross- 
legged on their counters, embowered by 
the shawls and silksof India and Persia 
—they look as if they were for ever 
sitting for their portraits, and seldom 
move a muscle, unless it be to breathe 
a cloud of smoke from their bearded 
lips, or to turn their vivid eyes upon 
some expected customer — those eyes 
that seem to be the only living part of 
their countenance. These bazaars 
have each a ponderous chain hung 
across their entrance, to prevent the 
precipitate departure of any thief that 
may presume too far upon the listless- 
ness of the shopkeeper — each lane 
and alley is also terminated by a 
door, which is guarded at night. In 
passing along these narrow lanes, you 
might suppose yourself in some gal- 
lery or corridor, until you meet a file 
of donkeys, or of soldiers staggering 
along their slippery paths. 

Mean-looking and crowded as is the 
greater part of Cairo, there are some 
extensive squares and stately houses. 
Among the former is the Esbekeych, 
by which you enter the city — a place 
perhaps twice the size of Stephen's- 
Green, occupied by a large plantation, 
divided by wide avenues, and sur- 
rounded by a dirty canal. A wide road 
shaded by palm and sycamore trees 
runs round this canal,ana forms a street 
of tall mud-coloured houses of very 
various architecture — some of these, 
the verandahs particularly, are very 
delicately and elaborately worked. 
The best buildings in the Esbekeych 
are the palaces of Ibrahim and Abbas 
Pasha, and the new hotel D' Orient, 
in which we had pleasant apartments 
— looking over a cemetery it is true, 
which was haunted by tribes of ghoul- 
like dogs. But beyond this 

*' Thin layer of thin earth between 
The living and the dead," 

were gardens, and Kiosks, and palm- 
groves, and a glimpse of the Nile, 
and, above all, the Pyramids far in 
the distance, yet, by their magnitude, 
curiously confounding the perspective. 
Another wide space is the Koume- 

leych, where fairs and markets are 
held, and criminals are executed, and 
other popular amusements take place. 
I am not writing a guide-book, and I 
shall only at present allude to the 
citadel, which, as I have observed 
already, overlooks the town. Mehe- 
met Ali resides in it when he is in 
Cairo. Here are the remains of Sala- 
din's palace, and the commencement of 
a magnificent mosque, from the ter- 
raced roof of which there is, perhaps^ 
the finest view in the world. There 
is also a place of great interest to an- 
tiquarian cockneys, because it is called 
Joseph's well, although owing its ori- 
gin to the Saracen,* not the patriarch 
— there is also a respectable armoury 
of native workmanship, a printing^ 
press, and a mint which coins annu- 
ally about 200,000 sterling in gold. 
This citadel was built by Saladin, and 
was very strong from its position, be- 
fore gunpowder gave the command of 
it to a height further up on the Mo- 
kattam height. 

But to me, the most interesting spot 
within these crime-stained precincts, 
was that where the last of the Mame- 
lukes escaped the bloody treachery of 
Mehemet Ali. Soon after the Pasha 
was confirmed by the Porte in the vice- 
royalty of Egypt, he summoned the 
Mameluke beys to a consultation on the 
approaching war agiunstthe Wahabees 
in Arabia. As his son Toussoun had 
been invested with the dignity of pasha 
of the second order, the occasion was 
one of festivity, as well as business. 
The beys came mounted on their 
finest horses, in magnificent uniforms, 
forming the most superb cavalry in 
the world. After a very flatter- 
ing reception from the pasha, they 
were requested to parade m the court 
of the citadel, which they entered un- 
suspectingly, until the portcullis fell 
behind the last of the proud procession. 
They dashed forwards — in vainl — 
before and around them nothing was 
visible, but blank, pitiless walls, and 
barred windows ; and the only open 
was towards the bright blue sky. 
Even that was soon darkened by their 
funereal pall of smoke, as volley af^er 
volley flashed from a thousand muskets 
upon their defenceless and devoted 
band. Startling, and fearfully sudden 
as was the death, they met it as be- 

Saladin*s name was Jonssef or Joseph. 

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oaine their fearless character. Some 
with arms crossed upon their mailed 
bosomsy aad their torbaned heads de- 
voutly bowed in prayer ; some with 
flashing swords, and fierce curses, alike 
onaTailing against their dastard and 
ruthless ^. All that chivalrous and 
splendid throng, save one, sank rapidly 
beneath that deadly fire into a red and 
writhing mass — that one was Emim 
Bey. He spurred his charger over a 
heap o fhis slaughtered comrades, and 
^rang upon the battlements. It was 
a dizzy height, but the next moment 
he was in the air — another, and he 
was disengaging himself from his 
erushed and dying horse, amid a 
shower of bullets. Ho escaped, and 
found hb well-earned freedom in the 

The objects of interest in the neigh- 
bourhood are very numerous. One 
day, we rode to Heliopolis, the On of 
Scripture. It is about five miles from 
Cairo ; and the road lies, for the most 
part, along a shady avenue passing 
through luxuriant corn-fields, over 
which numbers of the beautiful white 
ibis were hovering. We found nothing 
bat a small garden of orange-trees, 
with a magnificent obelisk in the cen- 
tre. Yet here Joseph was married 
to the fair Asenath; here Plato and 
Herodotus studied, and here the dark- 
ness in which the sun veiled the Great 
Sacrifice on Calvary, was observed bv 
a heathen astronomer. The obelisk 
seems never to have been isolated in 
the position for which they were origi- 
nally hewn out of the granite quarries 
of Syene. They terminated avenues 
of columns or of statues, and bore in 
hieroglyphic inscriptions, the destina- 
tion of the temples to which they led. 
People talk of the ruins of the temple 
of the Sun as being discoverable here ; 
and tiiere are reports about a sphinx, 
hot we could discover neither. Here 
is the garden of Metaricb, where grew 
the celebrated balm of Gilead, pre- 
sented by the que^n of Sheba to Solo- 
mon, and brought to Egypt by Cleopa- 
tra.* On our return towards Cairo, 
we were shown the fountain which 
refreshed, and the tree which shaded 
tbe holy family in their flight to 

Another day, we went to Shoobra, 
the palace and garden of Mehemet 
Ali. We cantered under a noble 
avenue of sycamores, just wide enough 
to preserve their shaide, and at the end 
of three miles> came to a low and 
unpretending gateway, picturesque, 
however, and covered with parasites. 
Without, were tents and troops, and 
muskets piled, and horses ready saddled; 
but within, aJl was peace and silence. 
A venerable gardener, with a long 
white beard, received us at the entrance, 
and conducted us through the fairy-like 
garden, of which he might pass for 
the guardian genius. There were very 
few flowers ; but shade and greenery 
are every thing in this glaring climate ; 
and it was very delightful to stroll 
along these paths, all shadowy, with 
orange trees, whose fruit, ^' like lamps 
in a night of green," hung temptingly 
over our heiuls. The fragrance of 
large beds of roses mingled with that 
of the orange flower, and seemed to 
repose on the quiet airs of that calm 
evening. In the midst of this garden 
we came to a vast pavilion, glittering 
like porcelain, and supported on light 
pillars, forming cloisters, that sur* 
rounded a little marble basin, in the 
centre of which sparkling waters 
gushed from a picturesque fountain. 
Gaily painted little boats for the ladies 
of the hareem, floated on the surface of 
this lake, through whose clear depths^ 
shoals of gold and silver fishes flashed 
lines of light. In each comer of the 
building, there were gilded apartments 
with divans, tables, mirrors, and all 
the simple furniture of an eastern 
palace, in which books or pictures are 
never found. The setting sun threw 
his last shadows on the distant pyra- 
mids, as we lay upon the marble steps 
inhaling the odours of the orange and 
pomegranate groves, and dreamily lis* 
tening to the vespers of the busy birds, 
and the far-off hum of the city, and 
the faint murmur of the great river ; 
the evening breeze was siting among 
the palms and the columns of the 
palace, when wo were startled by 
another rustle than that of leaves, and 
two odalisques came laughing by, un- 
conscious of our presence, and unveiled. 
The old Arab gardener anxiously signed 

* For an account of this plant, see the valuable notes to Lord Lindsay's Letters-— 
A book without which no one should visit Egypt, and few should remain in England, 
Vol. XXIII.— No. 133. c 

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Episodes of Eastern Travel. 


tb us to look another way, but for 
once I preferred European to Egyptian 
manners, and gazed admiringly on the 
startled pair. One was a very beau- 
tiful Georgian girl — I believe her com- 
panion was hajndsome too ; but one 
such face was enough at a time, and, 
as it was not very quickly shrouded by 
her veil, I had a glimpse of as bright 
—no, that is not the word — but of as 
beautiful a countenance as poet ever 
dreamed of. She was very fair, and 
all but pale — the deep seclusion of her 
life haa left but little colour on her 
cheek, and her exquisitely chiselled 
features would have been marble-like, 
but for the resplendent eyes that lent 
life and lustre to the whole counte- 
nance. A brilliant moon lighted our 
gallop back to Cairo : the gates were 
long since closed, but a bribe procured 
us easy admission. 

The tombs of the Mamelukes are 
mausolean palaces, of great beauty, and 
the richest Saracenic architecture, but 
now falling fast to decay, and only 
inhabited, or rather haunted, by some 
outcast Arabs and troops of wild dogs. 
They form a erand cemetery of their 
own, surrounded by the desert. 

The petrified forest is about five 
miles away. My friend R. went there, 
- and described it as a vast shelterless 
wilderness of sand strewn with what 
Beemed the chips of some gigantic car- 
J)enter*s shop. There are no roots, 
much less appearance of a standing 

One of the sights which amused me 
tnost was a chicken-hatching oven. 
This useful establishment is at some 
. distance from the walls, and gives life 
to some millions of chickens annually. 
It seems that the hens of Egypt are 
not given to sedentary occupations — 
having been hatched themselves by 
machinery, they do not feel called upon 
to hatch. They seem to consider that 
they have discharged every duty to 
society, when they have produced 
the egg — no domestic anxiety ruffles 
their bosoms, they care not whether 
their offspring becomes a fowl or a 
fritter, a game cock or an omelette. 

We entered a gloomy and filthy 
hut, in which a woman was squatting, 
with a dark, little, naked imp at her 
bosom. She sat sentry over a hole in 
the wall, and insisted clamorously on 
backsheesh (a bribe). Being satisfied 
*-^ this particular, she consented " to 

sit over," and we introduced ourselvec 
with considerable difi)culty into a 
narrow passaj^e, on either side o£ 
which were three chambers, strown 
with fine mould, and covered with 
eggs, among which a naked Egyptian 
walks delicately as Ag^, and keeps 
continually turning them with moat 
hen-like anxiety. The heat was about 
lOQo, the smell like that of Harrow- 
gate water, and the floor was covered 
with egg-shells and struggling chickens* 
The same heat is maintained day and 
night, and the same wretched hen-man 
passes his life in turning eggs. His 
fee is one-half the receipt — be returns 
fifty chickens for every hundred eggs 
that he receives. 

It was the feast of lanterns. As 
we strolled by the soft moonlight, un- 
der the avenues of sycamore and olive 
trees that shadow the Esbekeyeh, we 
could see through the vistas an ezten* 
sive encampment in the distance — in- 
numerable lamps, of various colours, 
and painted lanterns, shone among the 
tents and the dark foliage. Not onlj 
did they glitter on every bough, and 
on a thousand banners, but scaffold- 
ings were raised, on which they hung^ 
in garlands and festoons of light. The 
very skv above them wore the appear- 
ance of a faint dawn : every glimpse 
of the canals, every leaf in all the 
grove, shone with their reflected radi- 
ance. Of course we were soon strug- 
gling through the many -coloured 
crowd of the prophet*8 worshippers, 
that thronged the encampment. A 
Moslem mob is good-tempered and 
patient beyond belief; and that sea of 
turbans stagnated as calmly, as if 
every wave of it was exactly in the 
position that he wished to occupy. 
Each tent was crowded to excess by 
performers or aspirants in a most sin- 
gular religious ceremony. A ring of 
men, standing so closely side by side 
that they supported each other in their 
exhausting devotions, were vehe- 
mently shouting " Allah," or rather 
"Ullah," in chorus. They moved 
their bodies up and down, keeping 
strict time to this monotonous chant, 
exhaling their breath pantingly at 
every exclamation. Many were foam- 
ing at the mouth, some were incohe- 
rent — all seemed utterly exhausted, 
and fell, from time to time, among the 
crowd that was quietly squatted with- 
in their excited circle* They were 

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iiuteDtly succeeded bj others, and this 
proceeding continueNi till morning: 
every tent bad itn peaceful crowd of 
sqnattcn, sarrounded by its convul- 
sive ring. None of the crowd ap- 
peared to take the slightest interest or 
oariositj about the business before or 
afler thej had performed their own 
p«rt. Thej then lighted their pipes, 
where thej had room to do so, and 
g^ntlj struggled towards the flower- 
ornamented stalls, wh^re coffee and 
sherbet were supplied. It was very 
refreshing to turn from this melan- 
choly scene, so humbling to human 
nature, and find oneself in silence and 
solitude, under the, calm, pure skies, 
with the soothing whispers of the 
night breese, as it wandered among 
tbe feathery palms. 

I pass over, for the present, the 
schools, tbe hospitals, and the manu- 
^MTtories of the pasha, Mr. Leider*8 
interesting missionary schools, the 
nroseums of Dr. Abbot and Clot Bey, 
and will only beg the reader's com- 
pany to one more scene in Cairo. 

1 went to visit the slave-market, 
which is held without the city, in the 
eo«Hrt-yard of a deserted mosque. I 
was received by a mild-looking Nu- 
bian, with a large white turban 
wreathed over his swarthv brows, and 
a bernoose, or cloak, of white and 
brown striped hair-cloth, strapped 
roimd his loins. He rose and laid 
down his pipe as I Altered, and led 
nte in silence to inspect his stock. I 
found about thirty girls, scattered in 
groups about an inner court. Tbe 
gate was open, but there seemed no 
thought of escape. Where could 
they go, poor things 1 ** The world 
was not their friend, or the world's 
law." Some of them were grinding 
millet between two stones— some were 
kneading the flour into bread ; some 
were chatting in the sunshine, some 
slopping in tne shade. One or two 
looked sad and lonely enough, until 
their gloomy countenances were light- 
ed up with hope — the hope of being 
bought! Their faces were, for the 
most part, wofuUy blank — not the 
blankness of despair, but of intelli- 
gence ; and many wore an awfully 
animal expression. Yet there were 
several figures of exquisite symmetry 
among them, which, if they had been 
indeed the bronze statues they resem- 
bled, would have attracted the inspec- 

tion of thousands, and would have 
been worth twenty times the price 
that was set upon these immortal be- 
ings. Their proprietor showed them 
off as a horse-dealer does kis cattle, 
examining their teeth, removing their 
body-clothes, and exhibiting their 
paces. He asked only from twenty- 
five to thirty pounds sterFing for the 
best and comeliest of them. The 
Abyssinians are the most prised of the 
African slaves, from their superior 
gentleness and intelligence; those of 
the Galla country are the most nu- 
merous and hardy. The former have 
well-shaped heads, beautiful eyes, an 
agreeable brown colour, and shining 
smooth black tresses. The latter 
have low foreheads, crisp hair, sooty 
complexions, thick lips, and projecting 
jaws. It was like the change from 
night to morning, passing fVom these 
dingy crowds to the apartments of the 
white slaves from Georgia and Cir- 
cassia. It was not without some diffi- 
culty I obtained admission into this 
department of the human bazaar. Its 
commodities are only purchased by the 
wealthy and powerful Mussulmans, 
and many are bought upon commis- 
sion. They fetch from one hundred 
and fif^y to three hundred pounds 
sterling; and, being so much more 
valuable than the Africans, are much 
more carefully tended. They reclined 
upon carpets, lightly but richly clad. 
They were, for the most part, exqui- 
sitely fair ; but I was disappointed in 
their beauty The sunny hair, and 
heaven-blue eyes, that in England pro- 
duce such an angel-like and intellec- 
tual effect, seemed to me here mere 
flax and beads ; and I left them to the 
"turbaned Turk" without a sigh — . 
except, perhaps, a very little one for 
those far away, in mine own land, 
whose image they served, however 
faintly, to recall. 

It is the usual custom of travellers, 
to pour forth a torrent of indignation 
on the slave-markets of the east. Cer- 
tainly they do not sound well; and far 
be it from me to become their advo- 
cate ; nevertheless it is not just to 
paint the black prince blacker than he 
is, even when speaking of niggers. It 
is not fair to judge of the sufferings 
or sensations of these creatures, half 
man, half ourang-outang, by the stan- 
dard of our own people. It is true 
they are only clothed with a bluiket 

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Episodes of Easiem Travel 


or a napkin^ but that is the full-dresi 
of their native land. They are fe^ 
on coarse flour-cakes and water, but 
that is the beef and beer of Ethiopia. 
Their domestic ties are broken, but 
thej are not like oiir ties, whateyer 
morbid philanthropy may say ; and, if 
they were, the slave-dealer is only in 
the relation to them of a new-poor- 
law ffuardian unto us. They suffer 
harduiip and cruelty, no doub^ during 
their passage of the desert, and down 
the Nile; but once they are pur- 
chased, they are treated with the same 
kindness, they have the same food and 
dothes, as the free servant ; and they 
have noUiing of the stigma which is 
attached to their undeserved destiny 
in the free, and enlightened, and repu- 
diatii^ republic of America. It is to 
be considered, also, that they are, for 
the most part, prisoners of war, and 
ezchanffe a cruel death for that servi- 
tude which is the lot of the freest of 
us all in one form or another. As for 
the Georgian and Circassian beauties, 
they have never learned what love or 
freedom means ; they have been edu- 
ci^ed for exportation ; their only am- 
l^tion, like tnat of many fair maidens 
in happier lands, is to fetch a high 
prioe^ and their only hope is to be first 
nvourite in the hareem— toAoje ha- 
reem they care not. 

Heaven forbid that I should at- 
tempt to defend the diabolical traffic 
in immortal beings 1 I only venture 
to exhibit the matter in the light in 
which it i^^pears to the Mussulman, 
by which light alone he is to be 
judged. For my own part, I can truly 
•ay, that I have witnessed more me- 
lancholy sights in village church and 
dty chapel, whore orange-flowers 
wreathed, and jewels adorned, and 
bishops blessed a victim-bride, than in 
any dave-market of the east, from 
Cairo to Constantinople. 

It is forlndden by the law of Ma- 
homet to sell slaves to Christians, out 
of regard to their souls I We may 
smile at it, but we cannot scorn this 
consideration. Cairo is remarkable 
for latitudinarianism in matters of 
fiuth — ^bnt at Damascus, the traveller 
can only obtain admission to the slave- 
bazaar under the disguise of oriental 
costume. Even in the former city, 
however, the difficulty of access is 
daily increased, from tiie insults with 
which the slave-owners are over- 

whelmed by Christians, after they have 
satisfied their curiosity. These tn^ 
vellers should beware of relying too 
much on the ignorance of the African, 
for there are man-dealers and daugh- 
ter-sellers in other lands than those of 

Here, you black scoundrel I— here 
is the piice of that fair Georgian jnrl^ 
whose eyes spaf kle with the hope of be> 
ing bought, and being free. Yet no— the 
transaction would be condemned as 
disreputable in my country, where I 
have just seen a wealthy worldlti^ 
lead to the altar a richlv-adomed, but 
unwilling bride, whose heart (and he 
knew it) was another's. Congratula^ 
tions and honour showered upon his 
bargain, as reprobation would on mj 
little transaction here. Yet the onljr 
difference is, that his purchase-monej 
was in settlements, and that his pur- 
chase was a free-bom daughter of 
proud England. 

But enough of this — let us hope 
we all know one, who acknowledges^ 
in practice as well as in profes- 
sion, that there is a world beyond our 
own ; who prefers his child's happi- 
ness to an additional footman, andlvBr 
peace of mind to a pair of leaders. 
May his days be manyl May his 
white hairs shine, like a halo, in a 
happy home I and, in his dying hour, 
may he have nothing to reproach him- 
self with, except not having made 
traffic of his daughter's love. 

Here's a prettv homily about a i ._ 
pectable class of elderly gentlemen, 
with whom, thank heaven I in the 
course of a tolerably varied life, I 
have never had a dealing: nor am 
likely to have after this remonstrance^ 
to look upon a man as man, not as a 

I do not mean to assert that a coronet 
is not a most graceful i^p^idage, and 
coin a most convenient elonent, in a 
marrying man ; but a noble heart, and 
a rich intellect are not utterly value- 
less, but to minds devoid of both. 
After all, it is no affur of mine, this 
English heart-market ; I am neither a 
daughter nor a father — so, peace to 
the good, and repentance to the evil, 
and let us away to the quiet Nile, 

>* Wt luTe nuay ft dkUsI IMth to trtftd. 

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Drametk Poetry. -^Hewry ike Seconds 



A Critic of the French school in 
giviog an account of the publication of 
a new Toluniey which, amonff other 
pieces, contained a drama on the sub- 
ject of Francis the Second, complamed 
that the incidents were all such as 
might haTe actually occurred, that 
the sentiments were such as the si- 
tnatioDs themselves might have sug- 
gested, and the langpiage such as, in idl 
probability, the persons of the story 
vould have used themselves. The 
elevated tone which the drama exacts 
from kings and princes was sought for 
b vain. Men of good sense gave ad- 
vice pretty much as they would in the 
cooiicil-chamber. If there were some 
paisages in which a higher tone than 
tbatof ordinary conversation occurred, 
thej did not rise above the metaphori- 
cal lai^^uage which passion dictates to 
08 when entirelv in earnest, and think- 
ing and speakmg without restraint. 
None of the interest arising from 
overcoming the artificial difficulties, 
vhich the French interpretation of the 
doctrine of the Unities creates, was to 
be found in the play. It was, besides, 
neither tragedy nor comedy, and was 
in fact little better in pomt of plot 
than one of Shakspeare's rude dramas, 
iHted for a half-civilised people ; and 
the plan, if plan it might be called, 
was probably suggested by some of his 
histories of the life and death of one 
or]|other of the English kings. 

We have not seen the play which has 
been thus described, but if it had no 
greater faults than those which the cri- 
tic enumerates,we think whole theatres 
of French tragedies might be g^ven in 
ezdiange for it, and the purchaser 
who had bought it at the price of 
Voltaire — nay of much of Comeille— 
have the best of the bargun. 

Henet the Secoicd has, at first view, 
fittle other arrangement than the natu- 
ral order of the events of that prince's 
reiffn—after i^l the best and tmesis 
and were it even to be thought of as a 
play intended for representation, we 

suspect that the interest which sustains 
a reader's attention through volumes 
of biogr^hy, when he has once become 
engaged enough with the hero of the 
story, will be found sufficient for all a 
dramatic poet's purposes. This interest 
has been found abundantly sufficient to 
sustain narrative poetry; and there can 
be nothing in the mere circumstance 
of a story being told in dialogue, to 
create any essential difference. Still 
the dramatic poet, we think, if he relies 
on the interest which the story of the 
whole life of a man creates, should, 
from the first, make us distinctly ftsel 
that such and no other is his purpose. 
What in a true view of the author's 
purpose are episodes, must not be so 
presented as even, for a moment, to 
usurp more than their rightful place. 
The very circumstance that an author's 
path is, for the most part, prescribed to 
him by certain arbitrary rules, renders 
it necessary, when he would deviate 
ftom such rules into truth and natore» 
that there should be no mistake be- 
tween him and his critics; and we 
think that in this respect the author 
of Henry the Second has been in- 
cautious. The early scenes of the 
drama are occupied with Beckett 
whose character is brought out in 
such detail, before any mention is 
made of Henry, that our sympathies 
are engaged for the primate, before 
Henry, the true hero of the piece, ap- 
pears. We have scarcely a doubt that 
thb has arisen iVom some introductory 
scenes baring been struck out at the 
commencement of the drama ; if so» 
in a future edition, such passages (no 
matter of how littie interest in them- 
selves) shouldbe re8tored/>r afew scenes 
should be prefixed, in which the mind's- 
eye of the audience should be occupied 
with Henry — and Henry, to the exelo* 
sion of ms relations with Becket. 
In this wav alone, as it appears to us^ 
can the anther do justice to his own 
conception, and prevent the fkte of 
Becket appearing, during the early 

* Kbg Henry the Second.— An Historical Drama. London t Fleering, 1843. 

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Dramatic Poetry — Henry the Second. 


acts, to be the subject of the drama, 
instead of one of its very important 
but yet subordinate interests. A 
single scene, with Henry as its hero — 
and a genial critic, who had read the 
drama in any thing of kindly sympa- 
thy with the poet, ought to give him 
the assistance of imagining such a 
scene, — seems to us plainly required. 
Such omission, any where but at the 
▼ery commencement of the drama, 
might be safely hazarded ; but there it 
is especially dangerous, as till the 
poet's influence over his reader is alto- 
gether established there is no accom- 
panying feeling in the reader's mind to 
bear him on without the author's 

* It is, perhaps, too much for any 
writer in our times to expect that a 
work of his shall be made the subject 
of such careful study as the drama be- 
fore us requires and deserves ; but if 
any author has the right to demand 
this attentive consideration from his 
readers, it surely ought to be given to 
the author of the present volume. 
Though his name is not communicated 
by his title-page to the public, yet the 
advertisements of the book tell us it 
is by the author of " Essays written 
during the intervals of business" — a 
volume which, with little or no aid 
from the reviews, has passed into seve- 
ral editions. He is also the author 
of an earlier work of great beauty, 
entitled, << Thoughts in the cloister 
and the crowd." 

Of these volumes the « Thoughts 
in the cloister and the crowd" was 
published so long ago as the year 
1835. Both in this volume and in that 
of «' Essays in the intervals of busi- 
ness," the style of Bacon seems to have 
been the mould in which the author 
seeks to cast both his modes of think- 
ing and his forms of expression. His 
power is, we think, by this diminished 
— ^t least we feel most pleased when 
he is led to express himself more 
freely than the restraints of epigram- 
matic prose in general permit. In 
neither of these volumes was there 
one line of verse, nor was there 
any thing in the style or manner to 
suggest that the author had ever 
written poetry ; but there was in both 
books much that showed the author's 
habit of looking beyond the veil of 
words — much that indicated self-re- 
flfotion> and throfgbout there seemed 

a suppressed feeling, of something 
deeper within the writer's heart than 
he felt it fitting to give utterance to. 
A single word now and then betrayed, 
as it were, the existence of affections 
that found no natural expression in the 
mere language of prose. Now and then 
a link of thought was suggested, that* 
if expressed, would so naturally con- 
nect trains of reasoning in the essays, 
that we can scarcely believe such 
connecting links were not at first 
expressed in written words, and after- 
wards erased. These imagined links 
of thought were such as would suggest 
verse as their natural language. Could 
we see the original manuscript of the 
"Essays," said we to ourselves, on first 
reading the book, we have little doubt 
that they were cast in the form of 
which Cowley's is the best example 
— actual verse, every now and then 
illustrating and increasing the effect 
of the main body of the work — and 
the prose itself, by its very truth- 
fulness, showing that the author was 
a poet in one of the highest accepta- 
tions of the word. Our speculation 
did not go so far as to conjecture 
whether m the intervals of business 
our poet, like Spenser, after drawing 
up his memorials of the proper way of 
governing Ireland, was occupied in 
allegorising the lessons of experience, 
and reconciling, as he best could, the 
actual scenes, which we are compelled 
to behold and struggle in, with the 
ideal world, which Imagination would 
fain make of the earth in which we 

The "Essays in the intervals of 
business" has become an exceedinglj 
popular book, and one from which it 
would gratify us to give some extracts, 
but we have been too long misled firom 
the consideration of the volume imme- 
diately before us. 

English history may be described as 
commencing with the reign of Henry 
the Second. The doubtful title of 
Henry the First, and the circumstances 
in which Stephen, who owed his aa» 
thoritv entirely to the clergy, fgund 
himself placed, led to an increase of 
church authority incompatible with 
the freedom of the rest of the com- 
munity. Not only were almost all 
questions of propertv which could 
arise between man ana man, brought, 
on one pretence or another, into the 
ecclesiastical ooiirti» but eren in oriBii- 

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JDramcUie Poetry — Henry the Second. 


luJ CMaeMf an exemption was claimed 
for members of the clerical order 
from the jurisdiction of the temporal 
eomrts, and the priest who had com- 
mitted murder, or other felonj, was 
punished hj some church penances, or 
altogether escaped the conseouences of 
offences which, in the case of the lay- 
man, were punished with death. It is 
plain that while such a state of things 
existed, good government was ab- 
solutely impossible. We can imagine 
the entire triumph of the church over 
the state — in other words the sove- 
reignty transferred, and the milder 
punbhrnents of the church substituted 
in all cases for those which the tem- 
poral courts affixed to crime, and may 
reeard it even as doubtful whether the 
balance of advantage might not have 
been in favour of this change. We 
may sympathise with the church, and 
with Becket as representing the 
ohorch, supposing his aim to be the dis- 
tinct one of an actual and independent 
sovereignty ; but this case never having 
been in words made by him — being, in- 
deed, inconsistent with his position as 
a subject — we cannot but feel that all 
rational sympathies are with Henry in 
this struggle, which embittered the 
best years of his life. That Becket 
was enabled to state, to his own mind, 
a case which he regarded as justifying 
him, is less surprising than that his 
defence should be seriously maintained 
by such writers as Mr. Berrington and 
Mr. Fronde.* The question plamly was, 
in principle, whether Becket or Henry 
should be king of England, and in this 
form it was always stated by Henry. 

The drama before us, in the first 
scene, represents Becket employed, 
with his secretaries, in his ordinary 
duties as chancellor. After some peti- 
tions have been disposed of. Sir Regi- 
nald Fitzurse visits Becket to ascertain 
whether he can bear any message to 
the king. He is informed that a council 
is to £) held within two hours, to 
which Becket b summoned. 

In two hoars hence I must be with the 


[Beeh0t taJui a scroll flrom ike table. 

Look here, here is a goodly paper, 
This is the work of my old enemy— 


If I but knew the man who penned this 

Your enemy, my Lord, he would not be 

For long— at least on earth — the foul- 
mouthed rogue, 

I'd force each separate falsehood down 
his throat. 


For all your kindness, thanks, my 

But much of what this scroll declares is 

I am an *' English churl/' base bom if 
YOU like, 

At least I am not of your Norman 

And knightly nature. But these foolish 

Disturb me not at all. I only showed it 

As a jest. The man who is m any trust 

Must take these slanders as some per- 

OF his high station ; for it is the white 

That all are aiminfi^ at, the clumsiest 

Archer and the deftest — webs of ca- 

Should he to such a man as gossamer 

That winds its filmy way from branch 
to branch 

Of the overshadowing wood : In early 

And if in vacant mood, he feels such 

But else unconscious even of their pre- 

Enoueh of this — These parchments 
cluim again 

My errant thoughts. 

[He bows to Sir Reginald, who makes 
a low obeisance and withdraws. 


This sycophant 1 what is he fawning 

Some vacant barony — but, no, I wrong 

His very nature is subserviency; 

He must be some one's slave — and what 
am I 

To the impetuous king, but sudi a crea- 

As this mean-minded Fitzurse is to me ! 

Yet, from my lips will Henry evw hear 

Such truths, as no man else dare whis- 
per to him ; — 

And 'tis a noble being, worthy one's 

And one's best service, would he let one 
serve him — 

• By far the most interesting account of Becket in the language, is in Fronde's 
Remains. We differ from Mr. Froude on this, and on more important matters ; 
Imt to be enabled to form any jud&:ment on the subject of Becket, it is necessary 
to read what he has brought together. 

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JDramoHe Poeirjf — Henry the Second. 


This claim upon ToolouM, I cannot 

check it, 
E'en if I woold. It is their Norman 

To be most greedy after territory, 
Sadly neglecting what they do possess. 
The claim seems fair enough. 

After Fitzurse has gone, Henry, 
who is impatient to consult Becket, 
visits him oefore the council is held. 
The scene between them is not of any 
ffreat importance to the conduct of the 
drama, but is essential to show the re- 
lation of kindliness between them at 
this period of the story. This scene 
is followed by one in which Michael, 
the servant of Becket makes his first 
appearance. Michael is the professed 
wag and jester — enacting the part of 
the vice or clown of the old drama — 
every word is a jest, every sentence an 
epigram or abroad joke. Should the 
play ever be acted, a good deal will de- 
pend on this part ; it would make the 
fortune of a comic actor. Leonard 
ought to try it ; and we venture to 
promise him success a thousand fold 
greater than that of his " Irish Tutors" 
and *' Galway Attorneys" — excellent 
as he is in such representations. We 
may as well give the scene in which 
Michael Podge makes his first appear- 
ance: — 

A Court-yard in the Castle of FalaUe. 

A Warder walking up and down. 

Enter Michael Podqb. 


Welcome, Master Michael, to Falaise. 


Welcome, Thomas ; thou art heartily 
welcome to see me again. 


I saw you yesterday as you came 
through the great gate with the Chan- 
cellor, but you dian*t see me. I sup- 
pose you know what you*re all come 


No, by St. Ursula. No more fighting 
I hope. There is more valour some- 
times in keeping peace, look you, than 
in burning and slaying and the like. 
We have seen some pretty little doings 
lately, and if we were not so near our- 
selves, we could say something about 
the men who did them ; still one may 
have too much of a good thing. You're 
not married, Thomas, and can have no 
regular children; but I want to see 
mv little Michael again — and look you, 
I have a rheumatism every where. That 

is an evil one gets in a king's service, 
and they don't pretend to cure that. 


Why, don't you know that your mas- 
ter is to be Archbishop? The km|^ 
has been hot upon it this Ion? time, 
and now it's cooked. We small folks 
sometimes know what's going on amon^ 
the great ones as well as the great ones 
themselves. Becket is as surely going 
to be made Archbishop of Canterburj 


Oh no, my good fellow, it's not at all 
in our way. 


No, all the garrison says that it's a 
shame to be putting petticoats on the 
best soldier of the day. 


So you've heard of our achievements. 
There we had King Louis in that 
mouse-trap of Toulouse; we had onl/ 
to put our hands in and take out the 
little nibbler. But King Harry wouldn't 
hear of it. These kings are a queer 
batch, just like players at kettlepms, 
they'll bowl down forts, and towns, and 
castles ; but it's quite against the eame 
to play at each other's legs. So Short- 
Cloak sent us to Orleans and Quercy, 
which brought Master Louis upon bis 
knees in no time. 


And is it true about Engelran de Trie 
and your master ? 


Oh, you've heard of that too. There 
sat Engelran as stiff and as grand, 
thinking he was sure to make mandiets 
of my master, because he lives some- 
times among parchments, and is an 
Englishman, and has no de before his 
name. I hate those des^ Thomas ; what 
can a man want of them ? Isn't Podge 
a good name enough ? I wouldn't give 
any thing, for my part, to be <2e Podge. 
Well, there was Engelran, knowing ne 
was the best knight of France, looking 
niighty grand ; the Chancellor plnmpea 
him off at the first go, like a sack of 
flour. You should have seen the French. 
They looked like an army that has iust 
landed after being out at sea all night. 


These were grand doings I 


Nothing, nothing to what we've done 
since. I'm tired of sacking castles. 
Glory is a fine thing, Thomas ; but she 
never has clean linen, or any thing com- 
fortable about her. Now you have a 
good berth here ; [Michael walks up and 
oum] and a deal of time for thinking 
what you shall have for dinner, and 
looking up to the moon o'nights, and 
every thing that can make a man happy. 

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Dramatic Poetry-^Henry the Second. 


But I most nm— 7<ni're pleasant com- 
panj9 Thomaa, and one does like to tell 
a comrade abont the wars ; but if I keep 
my master waiting, hell give me a look 
that's worse than a word or a blow. I 
can tell you there are very few words 
between those looks and the provost- 
marshal's rope. I'll be this way again, 
and well have some good talk yet. You 
dkln't hear by chance what a certain 
Michael Podge did at the siege of 
Cahors, did yon ? Well, 111 come back. 
lExit Michad. 

The contrast between 6ecket*8 mode 
of living after and before he became 
archbishop, was the subject of much 
commentJU7 in his own day and ever 
since. We have as little faith in an 
archbbhop*s sanctimonious bearing as 
in any other man's — and Becket dealt 
too much in church excommunications 
to allow us to think him in any proper 
sense of the word religious ; yet we 
cannot think him the monster of hv- 
poorisy that Henry's partisans would 
inake him. The ordinary decencies of 
life required some change of conduct. 
That his vile temper became worse, 
on his elevation, and exhibited it- 
self in every after act of his life, we 
are inclined to attribute to his fasting. 
MHiatever advantage fasting may be to 
It man's spiritual welfare in other re- 
spects, it is certainly bad for the tem- 
per. On the whole, we think Becket 
throughout wrong, but thoroughly in 
earnest, and therefore — mischief-maker 
and almost rebel as he was — a charac- 
ter^with whom it is not difficult in 
acme degree to sympathise. It was a 
shallow view of his character to have 
represented him as inconsbtent. This 
is well dealt with by our author. 
Becket is described by the Earl of 
Arundel, in a scene which we give, 
not alone or even principally for the 
sake of the passage about Becket, but 
because we wish to call our readers' 
attention to Arundel's own character, 
which is exceedingly happily deline- 
ated :— 


What do you say of Becket, then? 


Why, Becket is no hypocrite. 


What, does it not surprise you, Arundel, 
To hear of his long prayers, his medi- 
His watchings, studies, and the com- 


He sees, none but most rigid clergy- 

Friend Michael vows that he himself al- 

Has eaten more salt fish than he before 

Imagmed the whole world contained. 


AH that you say of Becket, 
If it be trne^ u no surprise to me. 
The man's the same — the same through- 
out, I tell you. 
And always great — now greatness 

springs, perhaps. 
From fewer elements than we imagine. 
Take energy— that's one, and most of 

Who have it, seem to have it from the 

As if it were an impulse given to them. 
As they were formed; and this primseval 

Will last throughout their lives. Then 

there's the power, 
Much to be prized, of concentrating 

thought ; 
Without It, energy's a fire that bums 
Beneath an empty pot. Then there is 

And nothing makes one man superior 
To another more than that. Now all 

of these 
Are found in Becket, and will have their 

, p'ay. 

Let him be prince, or prelate; obaa- 

Or man-at-arms. D'ye think, my friend, 

that men. 
Real men, are for one mode of action 

As those carved figures in that eastern 

Where knights, and kings, and bishops 

never change 
Their functions, and are moved in one 

way only ? 


But Becket was so fond of pleasure. 


It rather seemed to me 
That he was mostly toiling over plea* 

Not taking it. His feasts were always 

And most laborious — then some enter- 
Of wild amusement — that's not plea* 

sure, at least 
It's not my notion of it. Did you now. 
Forsooth, imagine that the stirring 

Would settle down, a quiet, easy priest. 
Just such another as that glossy abbot 
Who lords it o*or St. Cuthbert s monks 

so lazily ? 
That would have been a change; but as 

I do not know that I perceive the least* 

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JDramatic Poeiry^MeMry ike Second. 


He kM another dress, aa4 wears no 

That's alU 

DE couacY. 
Well, Arundel, the king, I fancj, 

Thinks Becket not a little ohuiged ; you 

How willingly he heard De Clare's at- 

In council on the primate's claim to hold 

That Tunbridge castle ? How the king 
enjoyed too 

That cutting joke my Lord of London 

Of Becket, and the monks I 


I seldom see 
Too much of what a king does ; and I 

Of less than what I see. At court one 

Be either blind or dumb : and both, if 



My ^ood friend Arundel, you seem to 

From the core outwards, other men ; I 

Yoa*d sometimes talk about yourself. 
It's not 

To every one I'd make the same re- 


Oh, as for me, I am a man deficient 
In that first quality that I assigned 
To worldly great men — native energy. 
I sometimes see how the game might be 

But all their winnings would not tempt 

me enough 
To play it myself; and why I atay at 

I hardly know, saye that I always had 
A liking for the king, whose talk is 

And it amuses me to see the schemes 
Of busy, selfish people. 

iFlourith of trumpets. 
Oh 1 those trumpets 1 
Perish the man who first invented them, 
What an intolerable noise they make ! 
We must be gone — those things would 

drive me now 
From court sooner than any thing I 

know of. 
An intemperate, braying semid t 


The second act opens with a scene 
in th^ hall of Westminster, where 
Henry proposes his plan of law re- 
form. On his demanding that church- 
men should be dealt with for crimes by 
the lay triboDaLs, the bishops for a mo- 
ment confer apart, and Becket com- 
mimicatet t6 him thoif determination 

that his demand cannot he aoeeded to, 
being against the eanon law. An al- 
tercation more dramatic than dignified 
follows, in which the king reproaches 
the archbishop with having himself, in 
other circumstances, been the suggester 
of the reforms now sought to be ef- 
fected. Becket replies by saying that 
his new relation to the church has 
created other duties. ^< I am not)" he 
says, <* what I was." 


We know it well. 
For even in the fickle atmosphere 
That kings inhale, thy ohange is some- 
what rare. 
What time our predecessor ruled thia 

Men rose at daybreak steady partisans 
Of Stephen's; went to bed as fol- 
lowers — 
As faithful followers — of our empresa- 

mother ; 
When merry mom oame round, true to 

their king 
They woke again. Oh, those were timee 

for thee. 
My trusty friend. 

The bishops persist in their refusal^ 
with the exception of the bishop of 
Chichester. The king is about retir- 
ing, but returns, and looking at Boclret, 

This is all thy doing. 

We are then for a moment trans- 
ferred to the archbishop*s palace at 
Lambeth. The feelings and fears of 
Becket's retainers may be learned 
from Michael Podge, whom we are 
always glad to meet. 

Ante-room in the Archbishqp*$ Palace ai 

Enter Michad and Edward Grm, the 
Arehbiikof's eroee-hearer, 


I tell you I cannot abide all this fast- 
ing, and praying, and watching, and 
wasting away. 


Why, Michael, his Grace does not 
make you fast, or watch, or waste awaj 


I suffer more. What do you think I 
feel when he turns his pale face upon 
me, and says in his hollow tones, ** Mi- 
chael, would'st thou bring me a stoup of 
water." He looks through me with 
those eyes of his, and must know that 

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Dram^ic Poetry^Henry the Second. 


Ftb had two manohets of beef imd three 
stoops of beer for breakfast — to say no- 
thing of other particulars. 


It would certainly be more seemly, 
friend Michael, if thou hadst a little less 


I don't eat much — ^not near as much 
as mj mother's ploughman} but if I 
were to starre myself, you see, mine 
wouldn't become like the rest of your 
kite-faces. I'm a disgrace to the house- 
hold—I know that. When some pious 
man oomes^the Abbot of St. Withold 

and says, " Is his Grace within ?" 

thfo takes a sour survey of me. " Art 
thou one of his attendants ?" I could 
ahrink into nothine. I feel all over such 
an eating and driiuJng sinner. 


Amend thy ways. Abridge thy break- 


Abridge thy breakfasts— easy talkmg, 
Master Grim— hut that's not all. 1 
can't learn any of your ways. Up trips 
a delicate maiden to me no later than 
yestermorn, " Thy blessmg, pious sir." 
To the which greeting I had no sooner 
begun to answer "My pretty lamb," 
than she starts ofT again, as if I had 
been the she^ in the fable that was in 
wolf's dothmg. Now "my pretty 
lamb" wouldn't have been so much out 
of the way, if I had had the proper 
snuffle, and the correct drawl for it. 
These things, Edward, are bom with 
some people that I know of; but men 
of my stamp have to learn them, and 
con them, and practise them, d've see : 
and when a man, who's not a^ chicken, 
begins to learn to speak as if he had 
half his tongue cut out, and to walk as 
if he intended always to put his foot 
down in the exact place where he puts 
ft, he never gets a mastery of the trick, 
old Grim. 


Be jBontent. Thou wilt soon see 
enough of men of thy own way when 
his Grace goes to the court at Cla- 


Kay, I had rather be turned mto a 
stone, or good brick and mortar at onoe, 
vrith the rest of you, than that we went 
to Clarendon. There will be the King 
looking redder, and the Archbishop 
whiter, than ever; and Roger of York 
looking red with the King, and white 
with we Archbishop — and all this coil 
about a few words, which for aught I 


This is shiful, Michael ; I will not 
stay to hear the like. 


Not a word more shalt thou hear, 
good Grim, an thou dost not punish my 
ears with foretelling me about our iour- 
ney to Clarendon. Of late the old wo • 
men — ^pest on them — screech out as I 
go along the street, " Poor youth, we 
shall not see him much longer — a glo- 
rious martyrdom." Then breaks in 
another beldame, "Will the wicked 
King hang the whole household, dost 
thou thii&, neighbour ?" Ah 1 this 
comes of over-goodness, which I see is 
worse than over-fighting. 

[The ArchbUhop*s voice from, wUhin, 
Michael 1 lExeunt. 

The next scene is at Clarendon. 
Becket with difficulty signs, but refuses 
to seal, the scroll, expressing the assent 
of the bishops to the constitutions of 
Clarendon. Henry dissolves the coun- 
cil in anger, and war may be regarded 
as formally declared between the king 
and the archbishop. Nothing can be 
better depicted than the state of 
Becket's mind immediately after. 

Boom in the Archbishop*i Palace at Can- 

BECKET [alone,'] 
Twice peijuredl faithless to my plighted 

And to mine order ! When my very 

Was secular, and of all holy things 
I thought unworthily, I used to say 
It was a monkish dream, a phantasy, 
To talk of evil spirits tempting man ; 
But now I know there are such beings ; 

Could I, of all men, I, have thus in 

And lack of faith, abjured my sacred 

Oh, if iemptaiion would remain upon ue. 
In ite full power, at when it bows us 

Absorbing all our faculties ! 
But no, amidst the writhings of remorse, 
Whateer we feel, let truth be truth, and 

Us hnow, O God, the sinners thai we are. 
No, it is no excuse to say I did it 
From righteous fear of bloodshed; none, 

whatever ; 
Kings, princes, bishops, what are all 

their lives, 
What are the lives of all of us com- 
To one man's one sin ? I'll lay aside at 

My sacred functions, put an interdict 
Upon myself I will. 1 marvel-^ 
Enter an Atlendeu^, 

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Dramatic Poetry^Henrjf <*« Second. 



A messenger from courts 


Let him come in. 
Snier Messenger, who gives ike Archbishop 
a citation to appear be/ore the ParliO' 
ment at Northampton, 


A fitting answer I will send. 

[Exit Messenger. 
They cite me 
To appear before the conncil at North- 
ampton ; 
And there I will appear; but neyer 

King, prelate, earl, or any earthly 

bond me from the narrow track 
shed down 
On life*s dark waters by that heavenly 

Our only guide — not one hair's sha- 

dow s breadth. 


In an after scene* where it is men- 
tioned that Becket has been compelled 
to pay heavy fines, one of the observers 
says — 

These lords press hard upon a falling 

But still he bears himself so haughtily, 
You*d think it was his court they were 

And that he had kingdoms in his gift. 

The bishops desert Becket, and he 
flies to France. Henry sends an em- 
bassy to Rome, entreating that legates 
be appointed to try Becket in EngUndt 
and that he be ordered home for that 
purpose. Among others sent on this 
embassy is Arundel, whom Henry de- 

Of readiest wit, 
Prudent, but with no pedantry in ac- 
Who represents one's self, and not alone 
The mere instructions that one g^ves 


Courtyard in the Castle o/Bure, 

Enter De Courcy and Fitzstephen — after^ 
wards the Earl of Arundel, 


Thrice welcome, Arundel, to Bure. 
We've been expecting you this long time 

The king the most of all : and not most 


He used to say ^ou were the only i 

Who ever didhim any good at Rome ; 
Tou were, I think, in the first embassj. 
When Hilary of Chichester, in haste to 

His eloquence, made that false quantity. 
And set the conclave in a roar : I wish. 
With all my heart, you had been here of 

It mi^ht have ahortened these negocta« 

We've led a life of plans, and counter- 
Of protests, articles, and propositions ; 
At fast, thank Heaven, they ended in % 

And that in peace. Becket retoma, 
you know ? 


Yes, 'twas the news at every hostelrj. 


I think, myself, the King's done wrong ; 

at least, 
There is a great deal to be said against 



Oh, yes, my friend, there is no end of 

Show me the clearest thing that e*er 

was known. 
And let me be in sophist mood; and 

I'll find you fifty different things against 

And saying's not my business. 


But here, indeed ; 
There is so much that seems to me o'er- 

Becket returns, and you may call it 

Yet not a word about the constitutions ; 
Nor of ecclesiastical authority. 
How far it is to go ; those livings too. 
What's to be done with such as were 

filled up 
While Becket was away ? Then there's 

the claim. 
Not settled, as I hear, for injuries 
On Becket's lands ; in short I see so 

That's full of questions that — 


The longest day 
Would not suffice for even asking them. 
*Twould be the same, my good justiciary. 
If it had been a grave dispute betwixt 
Some greedy abbot and some cunning 

About the tithe^ of apples. Oh what 

questions ! 
What rare occasion for perplexities ! 
Thy court would sit from mom till eve 

upon it : 
And apples ne*er have heard themselves 

so talked 
About before. 

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Dramatic Poetry^^Henry ike Second. 



Why, wliat a floating mind you're in, my 

Tour journey must have raffled yoo. 


Oh, no. 
Only I thooght yoa hard opon the king, 
Whose treaties ever seemed to me so 

For as with other fiery men IVe Icnown, 
]>espite of frantic moods, his settled par- 
Are followed ont with passionless sa- 


I stiU most say, that there are many 

Kot taken into nice consideration, 
That's to my mind : bat I mast go, my 

I'm wdted for. [Exit. 


There goes my man of points and dif- 

And if the bosiness of oar life were such 

A greater man wonld not be found : bat 

Is not a cherisher of anght that's cap- 

To extend, exalt, oomUne and harmonise. 

Is what it lives for — and eren in its fits 

Of wild subversion, has a thought to 
build again. 

Am for these ounning trains of argument. 

Which sometimes startle by their clever- 

But lead to nothing; and come from a 

Who cares for nothing but his own acute- 

I hold them as the garlands hung on 

Which do not grow. — ^Now that Justi- 
How, at every tnm> his office shows in 

Indeed itTs sad to see how many men 
Are quite o*ermastered by the art they 

Poet or painter, statesman, warrior chief. 
They do not make their craft an instru- 
A thhdg for service or for safety to them, 
But they're its slaves^ and it absorbs 

them wholly. 
How wearisome is all they talk about, 
lost as the talk of other men to them. 
Unless -it be upon their wondrous doings. 
Why even kings, not bound to what is 

Who should discern the very pith of 

They have a king-crafty too, and lose in 

The sense of something greater than 

their office — 
The man that's in them. But I must 

go. Do Courcy, 
The king will be expecting me. 


I think youll say he's changed : his tone 

of late 
Is not so buoyant as it used to be. 


The troubles of a man are like the clouds 

Which float about in wild and ragged 

Throughout the day : and then they 
settle down 

In steady lines of gloom athwart the ho- 

With sober pomp to herald in the night. 


Henry feels that the "patched-up 
peace" between him and Becket, 
though the only thing to be done in 
the circumstances, is but little likely 
to succeed. The return of Becket is 
at the time when the dissensions be- 
tween Henry and his family are at 
their height Henry's character is 
affectinely conceived — his kindness of 
nature is such that every purpose of 
his is influenced by generous considera- 
tions for others ; and to such a man to 
have his fair reputation lied away, is 
one of the trials he is least capable of 
bearing. How much the character has 
won upon us is perhaps best proved 
by its being impossible for us not 
to think of what Henry would have 
been in private life, or rather what he 
would have been had he lived in such 
a period as to have it possible to re- 
concile the retirement and the happi- 
ness of private life, with the public 
duties of the king. Like the princes 
in Scott's novels, the Henry the Se- 
cond of our drama is a flesh and blood 
man — having a body and a soul — with 
a head, and heart, and conscience, and 
affections. We love Henry. Listen 
to him now conversing with Arundel : 

All my life has calumny 
Been busy with my name. Those scrib- 
bling monks. 
They have me down, I doubt not, in soch 

As they daub the enemy of all mankind 
Upon -the margin of their choicest mis- 
I would, indeed, I were a monk myself, 
Just pacing up and down one little line 
Of thought and action, narrow as tht 

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Dramatic Poe(ry'*»*Henjy ike Second, 


That then would echo to my listlets steps. 
Kay, I could almost wish that I were one 
Of those same simpletons, who bear the 

To other landsi and leave their enemies 
To reap the goodly harvests from their 

Not that they need be very provident, 
For few of them return. Alas 1 I wonld 
That I were any thing but this. At 

"When a boy, I wandered on the Severn's 

The Indian deeds of that unbounded man, 
The Macedonian monarch, seemed to me. 
Not exploits to be copied, but out-done. 
Indeed, what youth would be content to 

The fortune of the greatest that have 

Before him! But our life and hopes 

Methinks, my wcU-loved ft-iend, that toil 

like mine 
Might have sufficed to win, and what is 

To govern kingdoms ; yet my sovereignty 
Seems day by day to grow less firm. 

"Why, fools 
Have ruled vast empires seemingly with 

Whate*er I purpose, though with deepest 

Designed, an odious progeny of dangers 
Qrows round it instantly, to gnaw its life 

out — 
Such monsters as encircled that poor 

Whom Glaucus loved, and Circe changed 

so foully : 
Those were her offspring, too. 

The next scene represents Becket's 
return — the delight with which he is 
received by his own followers— and his 
own anticipations of the fate that 
awaits him. These are all well de- 
scribed, or rather exhibited. Then 
follows his murder ; a scene which we 
think, should the play be acted, had 
better be suppressed, and an account 
of the act substituted. We must 
transcribe the scene in which Henry 
receives the intelligence. He is in the 
castle of Bure among his lords, hear- 
ing some petition with respect to a case 
of wardship, when a horn is sounded, 
and a messenger enters. 


With instant haste de Glanville bade me 

This letter to your Highness-^ 
[King Henry takes the letter emd reads U» 


Madness to the uttermost I-^Beoket i« 

slain ! — 
A world's calamity ! — avannt all of you ! 
Take it. [Gives the leUer to De Lacy. 

I had as lief that it had been 
The warrant for my death. JBweunt. 

And so it is 
Hereafter. [Exit King Henry, 


Hoom in the Castle of Bure, 

KING HENRY (alonc.) 

No, no, I am not fit to reign. 
For I am as a heedless beast that mist 
Give tongue on the first sight of what 

provokes it. 
And not a king prepared for all things. 
Henceforth what toils, what dangers I Let 

there come 
The least mischance, and e'en the har- 
dened soldiery 
Will find a terror in this deed, and shun 
A fated leader ; the enmity of France, 
Which never sleeps, will spring to arms 

Those barons of Anjou and Normandy 
Will not be slow to follow ; pious men, 
I do not doubt they'll call it a crusade. 
And they'll be backed by potent inter-* 

Bome*s utmost malice; my good queen 

will find 
In Becket*s death another reason why 
A loving son should war against his fa« 

J(f this were all, if enemies like these 
Alone besieged us, we would call our man- 
To the breach, and beat them ba/eh, as 

We always have done; but tMs bloody 

Has crept into our citadel — the heart, 
I may akgure the murder; and if victory^ 
In its companions seldom scrupalons. 
Attends me still, men's lips will hoaenr 

As heretofore ; but when there's none to 

Or when o'nights they sit midst trusted 

And freest words are spoken, murderer's 

the name 
They'll call me ; and if they do not I do : 
Had my soul never dwelt upon the joy 
That Becket's death, I thought, would be 

to me. 
Had not ray hatred something murderous 

This madness would not thus have tri- 
umphed o*er me. 
What seem our words SMiy be embodied 

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DtamaHc Poetry — Henry the Second. 


1 do believe, but hi the inmost soul 
We must hare entertained them kindly 

Alas! what Barid felt I noir can feel; 
"Woald tliat I alone^ I only were to 

Bttt thk gr«at feud, the jflory of my 

Bei^im for no advantage of mine own. 
Par eight long years maintained^ my 

thought by night, 
By day my care, one act of bloodshed 

It all. I see that Becket's death will 

A Roman road for priestly arrogance, 
Ho longer forced to wind its devious 

But passing straightly over all obstruc- 
like the man himself. For him too I 

eouJd weep. 
And former days come back upon my 

When we were friends, dear friend. 

These maniac knights ! 
What can I do with them ? Punish iheir 

Twere pouring blood on blood ; and then 

if not— 
* Behold the men who murder for a king. 
They go unscathed^" some such {injurious 

Will be in all men*s mouths. There is no 

No remedy to meet it. Now I see 
The only evil we perpetuate 
Agrainst ourselves is that we meet with 

All other dies. 
Ho more of this. Bemotte and peni* 

Wai have their day ; but now, my soul, 

for counsel : 
There must be some great enterprise de- 

Something to occupy my subjects' minds ; 

Nor will I wait In abject expectation 

The eoming of the papal legates here. 

Onwards we'll march, and daring be our 

How then for Ireland. A fire there is 
within me^ 

Bat it shall not consume my kingly pur- 

The man whose fate it is to wear a 

Host make remorse and grief subservient 
to him. 

As any of his other vassals. Ho, there I 

He is interrupted by ArundeFs ar- 
rival with news requiring immediate 
ezertioD— he gives the necossary or- 

ders with seeming eagerness and anxi- 
ety. When Arundel retires he says :— 

These things 
"Would once have occupied me wholly; 

I do but talk of them : one tyrant 

PweUs in my joyless mind, enthroned, 

And leaving room for nothing else. 

The modern dramatist wisely disre- 
gards the arbitrary rules imposed on 
his predecessors in the art ; and we 
meet Henry in the next act» when 
years have run on and produced their 
natural effects. The fate of Becket 
still preys on his own mind, but it has 
had its importance in deterring the 
clergy from any new attempt at sys- 
tematic opposition to the royal power. 
The pope is reconciled to Henry. The 
war with Scotland has ended in the 
imprisonment of the Scottish king, 
the superstition of the age was gra< 
tified in recording that his defeat oc- 
curred on the day on which Henry 
did penance at the tomb of Becket. 
Henry's temper^ however, is tried, and 
and his life embittered by the ingrati- 
tude of his sons. The eldest he had 
already associated with him in the 
formal government of England^ an(l 
by a custom not then infrequent^ had 
him crowned. To the others he had 
assigned parts of his continental pos- 
sessions : — 

Be thought to Inake the princes great la 

And nothhig else. But who that knew 
Prince Richard 

Could think that he would make a paste- 
board duke — 

Of AquitainC) too, where the people hate 

AU Norman rule, just as they love their 
queen ; 

And where those tiresome, jingling, trou- 

Are always stirring mischief. 

To this natural observation the re- 
ply is : — 


True enough : 
But what had Henry done to this young 

That he should join the rebel force, and 

The first of them ? 

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Dramatic Poetty — Henry ike Second* 



I do not know, except 
That he has made him — the young king. 

Comes prematurely sometimes, though 

its step 
Is, mostly, rather of a halting one — 
At least with us, poor knights. 


You're critical, 
My friend : most men become so when 

A little from the stage of action — 

strange, too, 
That those, who have been much in busy 

Are not the less censorious when they 

To weigh the deeds of those they leave 

The wisdom that there is in solitude 
Would serve almost to guide the whole 

world wisely. 
Myself, Sir Hugh — when I am quite 

And nought untoward has occurred to 

vex me ; 
The passions of the world seem litUe 

Than mad — and as for guiding other 

It is the simplest thing imaginable — 
That's when one's wandering under trees 

and bushes, 
—And as I said before, in solitude ; 
For if one has but one companion — hang 

It's quite a toll to make the fellow walk 
In step with us. 

The next scene is a room in the 
polace of Westminster^ Henry and 
the Earl of Arundel are seated at a 
table, upon which are several plans of 
fortifications. Henry appears ill, and 
accounts for it by relating the tumul- 
tuous dreams of the past night. The 
visions of the night have represented 
him always captive — always in the 
power of some one: now of the pope, 
and now — for in the dream Becket is 
still living^n Becket's power. << Can 
it," he asks:-. 

Can it be these monks, who wish me ill, 

have power 
To bring this cloud of misery on my seal ? 


Oh no! our dreams are wholly in our- 

The tapestry may be strangely inter- 

But each thread comes from ont the 
thrifty brain, 

That stores up e'en the refuse of oar 

lives — 
There is no other source. 


I think so too. 
I could more easily believe that stars 
Controlled our doings, than that any 

By impious, or by pious, men pronoonoed 
Could so subdue the immortal part of as. 
Yet it is very strange. We're not unlike 
Those wretched hinds, who are dumb to 

all you ask. 
Save Just about the little spot they gprow 

And all beyond is fabulous or barren. 
There may be some significance in^ things 
We reck not of. 


I do not hold, my lieg« 
To monks, or dreams, or stars. There 

may be wonders 
Round us on all sides. I do believe there 

And if the mind became mahtred, tokiie 

The tentee kept their chUdieh appre* 

We should, no doubt, tee more than we do 

now ; 
At least we should find more in what we 

do see: 
But familiarity with outward nature. 
As with our fellow-man, may shut us up 
In ignorance of the greatest qualities 
Of both of them— 
Yet still I cannot think but Nature's 

Would all be linked together, worics of 

Disposed in order, showing perfect har- 
Not evil gifts of evil lawless beings — 
And to suppose that monks should have 

the power 
That to themselves they arrogate, or that 
The doings in this vast extent of earth 
Are ever by those glittering specks above 
Determined, it were wronging Providence 
To think so for a moment. It cannot be. 

The coming rebellion Henry has 
been advised to extinguish with 
blood : — 

But, Arundel, indeed I cannot do It. 
These bloody courses are repugnant to 

They ever have been so : one may so 

Suppress one's foes by slaughter, yet one 

But drive them inwards: and, agaiiW 

there's this-~ 

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Dramatic Poetry-^Henry the SecotuL 


TluU when mj days are nambered, and 

my friends 
Become the subjects of this rebel boy, 
Uj present mercy may preserve them 



Ohy my good liege^ year thoughts are 

erer fhil 
Of kindly wifldom — Should a tmce come 

And peace b« canyassed, what is to bo 

In ease they stir the marriage of Prince 

With that fair flower of France? I hear, 

my lord, 
Tliat this is spoken of. 


Indeed I It must not he~^ 
This Adelais is so wise, so winning. 
It were in truth an eril fate for her. 
If the young king were stiU unmarried; 

Though rebel now, is of a noble nature ; 
And GeoCfr^', too, has many gifts ; but 

Like his would bo intolerable to her. 
Cimniug for cunning's sake is what he 

Toa set him down before the noblest 

Most wDUngly he*d leave it all nntasted, 
To intercept dry bread by craft. I hate 
This thriftless guile — Besides he must 

wed Constance. 
As for Prince Richard, though he was 

In hifancy betrothed, to Adelais, 
He cares not for her; and with moods 

like his. 
To wed him to her were to wed the lion 
To the antelope. Now John, though 

young ai yet, 
ICght make a better husband. 


WeU, if all 
The royal wards in their alliances 
Were half as much considered by your 

Methinks that love, not war or policy. 
Would be the study of your life. 


Tou are 
Indeed, a bold man, Arundel ; your drift 
1 fully understand. You wrong me 

Have I not brought her up from infancy ? 
And I will say it, she is dear to me, 
Hone dearer. I own that it would break 

my heart 
To have her wedded to an enemy, 
A rebel son for instance ; and to know 
She would be taught to execrate my 

For one so little loved as I have been«- 

That is of late — for such a one, I say, 

To lose the affection of the meanest 

That comes near him, may be grief be- 
yond assuagement — 

But hers — to lose her love would be the 

Of ills that could befkll me ; why now» 
look, man, 

Am I not nearly childless, or fiur worse ? 

Are serpents children ? 


« Little loved"— you say : 
You wrong some men, my liege; I am 

not given 
To large professions, but you know— 


I know your most sincere fidelity. 
And all the great affection that you bear 

I wonder at it. But Arundel, you are 
A man of scrutinizing mind ; one feels 
How yon must see through all one's 

A better, truer friend there never lived. 
Than I have found in thee ; and let me 

say it. 
Thou in me. But in her sweet society 
There's that repose which in the midst of 

Alone can soothe me ; there I am always 

And honoured too, without reserve or 

Youll find that women, seldom much dis* 

To pause in their opinions, where they 

See nought but ill ; and nothing, where 

they love, 
But what is lovely. You would not have 

me part 
With love like this. When John is 

older — 


My liege, 
I only think what answer can be given 
To France, and to Prince Richard, should 

they claim 
To have this promised marriage solem- 


I will not have it— nothing shall compel 

Vol, XXIII,— ^No. 133. 

And surely his rebellion is enough. 


But how detain the Princess Adelais, 
If there's to be no marriage with your 


Why, John shall take his place— if vic- 


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Dramatic Poetry — Henry the Second. 


Befriends me, these are immaterial 

Treaties are ever written by the sword. 

Our extracts iVom this act are ne- 
cessarily long, but it is impossible that 
any reader should feel them tedious. 
The delicacy of touch with which the 
character of Henry is brought out — 
sometimes by the very faintest out- 
lines — renders it impossible for us to 
do justice to the work in any other 
way than by enabling our readers to 
make it a study. Henry, always 
thinking of others— never thought of 
by them— in every object of desire or 
of ambition interrupted by looking 
round to see how the happiness of 
others is likely to be affected by what 
he does, is, we think, one of the most 
happily conceived characters in the 
whole range of modern dramatic lite- 
rature. The next scene, which intro- 
duces us to Adelais, the French 
princess, the affianced wife of Richard, 
cannot be omitted : — 

Scene III. 

Jloom in ike Palace of WeHminHer look- 
{ng out on the river. The PainoEss 
XDBLAis, attended by two Ladiee, worhf 
^g^ at tapestry, 


Jeannette, I think if these good Trojans 

To life again> they would not know them- 

In these gay tunics that we give them. 


ICadam, it is their beards they would not 

Indeed the vanity of men about 

These satne excrescences is something 
wondrous ; 

Our gear is not so various as their 

To beautify those noble signs of man- 


They say my Lord of Eos in crescent 

Is going to cut his beard. 

Enter Kino Henbt. 


Good-morrow, gentle lady, it is always 
In this much favoured room I find you. 


The river shows itself most happily 
From here ; and, in whatever mood one 

Its wavy mirror sf ems to harmonize 
"With one's imaginings ; we find in our 

Poor handiwork there are some kindlj 

On which all others may be wrought: it's 


With this fair element, from which alone 
The Goddess Queen of Beauty could 

have sprung. 
For even most ungainly things are ftiir 
To look at, floating on it, or dbposed 
Along its banks. 


Like love. 


I do not know. 


Well, how does Troy hold out ? There 

are few towns 
Which 1 have e'er besieged, that I have 

So anxious should be taken as this Troy, 
Fair maiden. I am weary of it — and yet, 
I love to watch those little agile fingers 
Go clambering over battlements and tur- 


You're like the rest of your unquiet sex. 
You live but in the future or the past ; 
We humbler women can eiyoy time pre- 
For any trifling thing amuses us, 
And you may see how constant we are to 


I wonder which of these grand armies tis 
That Adelais favours ; Greeks or Tro- 


I am the very worst of partisans. 
Whene'er my friends become victorious, 
I desert: Fm always with the beatea 


A knightly feeling, by my troth. Fair 

You may withdraw awhile. 

[Exeunt Jeannette and MUdred, 
My Adelais, 
There's something I would say to you 

I leave for Rouen: Should Prince 

Richard claim 
The bride in Infancy affianced to him. 
What answer shall be given ? 


Your highness does not think that I 
would wed 

A son of yours In arms against you ? 
KINO HENBT [tokei her hand,] 

No, gentle one : 

But if I bring Mm captive to your 
charms : 

A loyal son withal— why then, perhaps — 

He may be somewhat rough and boiste- 
rous, but 

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1844.J Dramatic Poetry-^Henry the Second. 


Ve're told yon maidens rather love those 

Who'Te nothing of the woman in their 



Prince Richard is a noble youth: at 

I hear so: my maiden Joan talks much 
to me 

About his comeliness, and great ex- 
ploits — 

But I— my lord— to go back to Troy 
•gain — 

I do not much admire the Achilles there. 

Indeed the conquered Hector ever won 

My erring fancy more— Queen Eleanor 

Was wont to say^ 


Yes! [drop$ her hand,] 


To say. Prince Richard was 
The least like you. 


Now, she has made them all 
Alike — to me — except the stripling 

John : 
And if within the circuit of her wiles. 
He had, no doubt, been ranged against 

me also. 
^nwyVe all one brood— But, Adelais, 


Tistimeto part— I think we need not 

Prince Richard from his care of Aqui- 

laine : 
Sleanwhile a thousand blessings on thy 

If aught can minister to thy delight, 
Onr chatelains have orders to procure 

it — 

^1 Troy be taken quickly. 


„ And Rouen 

B« saved. 


tt thaU. Those Frenchmen 1 I will drive 
them into — 

' ADSLAIfl. 

Those Prenchmen are, my liege, my 


I^veness, fairest cousin— I ever feel 
^wn trt of English Wood to me. 


Tk L ^'*«- 

*w wve my kith and country claim of 

I h^ ^®^<>tt«n all ' my father too ! 
*«*r he now accompanies the army. 


fhott may 'at be sure that should the 

chance of war 
*« Ottn; for thy ^^^ gj^ijg ^gtjj jj^j 


His safety. Once again, adieu. Youp 

Am I to caU them— which of them is 



Why neither; she is the tall one with 

bright eyes 
That used to be so mooh with me at 



I must not linger more: so farewell, 


We are not disposed to Mow our 
author in his descriptions of the 
treachery and intrigues of the French 
negotiations and war, but hasten to 
the passage in which the temporary 
reconciliation of the king and his 
children Is described. The scene does 
not admit of abridgment : 

Scene VII. 

Room in the Castle of Gieore. Enter 
King Henry the younger, and Prince 
Oeojfrey Plantagenet. 


I dread to see him. 


Would it were all over. 
EnterKim Henby and Pbiwob Richabd. 


My sons I speak to them, Richard— bring 
them hither. 


Brothers, I did resist our father most : 
And look, he has forgiven me. 


Say, is there aught in the conditions of 

this peace ? 
Peace ! what a word of shame between a 

And his children I But is there aught, I 

Which you would seek to change ? 


Oh no, my father, 
Xfothmg. The terms are only far too 

If that you could forgive us I 

[King Henry the younger and Prince 
Geoffrey kneel ai King HenryUfeet, 


Henry, what had I done to thee, unless 
I made thy greatness grow too soon, and 

Prepared thy fall? Oh, child, when I 

am gone, 
And those sad days come on thee when 

one thread 
Of memory, uncoiling from the rest. 

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[Dramatic Poetry — Henry the Second. 


Shall sarely show thee all that may have 

Between thyself and me— trost me, not 

The fawning tribe of oonrtiers can efface 
One word of the imperishable records 
Of the brain— and when in agony, too 

Ton look along this sentient, qoirering, 

Of conscience-stricken recollection ; 
What words of ftre wUl this nnholy war 
Make known iUelf in? Oh, I could 

weep for thee. 
My son t 


Spare me. 


Nay, be not thus strock down; 
Bo not despair: then hast a life before 

And why, my son, is each day's life be* 

By the All-mercifol, hot that we might 
Do something to retrieve the sin of yes- 
At least what penitence can do ? There's 

Some mercy to be hoped for, and some 

To be done. I pardon thee; and well 

we know 
Thy Heavenly Father*8 mercy, as the sin 
Of m^n, is inezhaostible. Let not 
Bemorse consume thy soul, but for my 

To comfort me, look up, my son, and 

To be, as you haye often been before, 
A blessing to me. 


Father, say any thing 
But words like these — ^had thy lips ut- 
tered what 
My conscience thought, I could have 

borne it all ; 
But not this love. 

[ The young King and Prince Oeoffireg 


I know full well how much you had to 

tempt you. 
Your mother's promptings, and your 

wife's ; with all 
The inducements wliispered to you by 

those men. 
Who love the licence of a youthful reign. 
And seek to gain through you their own 

Mayhap that I have been to all of you. 
At times, a most neglectful sire ; for oft. 
Amidst the toils of state, and that un- 

We monarchs know, a hasty rude embrace 

Is all that we can give our children; 

Again, the peasant's life is to be envied. 
Whose cliildren grow up near his eye^ 

and throw 
Their tendrils round him. Yet think not 

that we love 
Our children less than those same happy 

Who find the time to fondle them from 

For in the camp, and at the councU- 

We think of their fair Csces, cherish 

their few 
Fond words, contrive their greatness, 

and, poor fools. 
Imagine we are hoarding up their lore 

for us! 
But love is not a plant that's wont to 

From benefits. Oht if you saw my 

You'd see the traces of its honrly 

And love, for all of you. 


I fear, my liege. 
That these domestic discords are the fiite 
Of our great race. 


Think it not, Geoffrey : what ! 

Shall we, who boast our manhood, be, 

Mere puppets of the past — a wretched 

Of cravens bom — ^better a nameless race 

Of lowest ser£i, than thus to be entram- 

By the blood-guiltiness of imperial an- 

No, son Geoffrey, when we've sinned, our 

—Mayhap, that worst amongst them all, 
ourself, — 

May whisper in our ears, the sin was not 

King Henry's, or Prince Geofrey'a,€nr 
Prince Richard's, 

'Twas all Plantagenet's : but I would ab- 

To-morrow, for myself, for all of yov. 

Did I not think we were to the Aill as 

As other men — and fireer, as more bold. 

The fifUi act commences by idform- 
ing us of the deaths of Arundel and 
of the young king : a new war, raised 
by the surviving sons of Henry, in 
which, after sad reverses, a disaavan- 
tag^us peace is at last made with 
France. It was a bold stroke of the 
poet to have endeavoured to show us 
Henry alon^ with no other aid than 

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Dramatic Poetry — Henry the Second. 


tbat of his own mind, struggliog with 
his difficulties. Arundel* as a friend 
— eren Becket* as an enemy, was a 
somethii^ external to the mind> and 
thos a sort of support. Any thing 
can he endured hy man but self-com- 
mnnication — and> alas I Henry is left 
with all the affections of his nature 
still awake» looking b run for one ob- 
ject of love on earth. The situation 
b an a£fecting one* beautifully con- 
ceiTed br our poet, but is scarcely 
SQCoessful, regarded as a dramatic 
pcture. We begin to love Henry 
when we are just about to lose him. 
We are not quite sure whether the 
effSect is not in nart accidental. Arun- 
del hasy through the earlier acts, been 
the character most carefully sketched 
by the poet. Giving him something 
of indolence* at least of indifference 
to the ordinary objects of ambition* 
the poet was naturally led to express* 
b his person* his own views of life. 
After Arundel's death* Henry* who 
has some of the same elements of ori- 
ginal character with Arundel* and 
who is represented as thrown upon 
soliloquy* niterests us b the same way 
that Arundel did. We have not room 
for many more extracts* but must give 
the following : — 


Hin is too Uind a creature to Indulge 
In wishing — oft* with anxions, strabbg* 

We watch the combg of some joy long- 
hoped for : 
And now "Us near.^BQt at its side a 

And stealthy thing that we should fly 

like death* 
Bid we bat see it, is advancbg on us— 
Tesy step for step* with those of its 

bright compeer — 
The dark thing smiles to see us hailinff 

With mad delight. Oh* how I longed to 

The war with Henry, little dreaming then 
That it would dose this much misguided 

And now I long — 

Enter a Miiteitger, 


^7 liege, Amboise is taken. 


Yes* sir, we know it. 
Friend, when thy news is evil, if for one 
Brief moment thou dost stay upon the 

U «m outetrip ihee fittwas thk has done. 

Among the conditions of peace be- 
tween England and France* one on 
which Henry insists is* that he shall 
be given a Ibt of the traitors. Among 
them b the Earl of Chester. The 
lung unfolds the Ust and bug^ ^-. 

The very name I looked for first— b- 

I knew my Lord of Chester would be 

Most versatile* most wondrous are hlf 

In council* in deliate* b war, in policy* 
And all the arts that can adorn a man; 
With much that's good and kbdly b him 

Nor does he lack great purposes* pur« 

At times most nobly — and then* agab* it 

As if he had no rule of life to guide him* 
Not even a predominating vice 
That might give sure direction to his 

course — 
A noble vessel* rudderless* now here. 
Now there* impelled — ^by light and fickle 

Of swelling vanity — had I been con- 
This Earl had been the first to treat with 

Well pleased to see another turn of 

And longing much to be the man to 

It all about— Well see some more— 

[ The King apem the teroU again. 
Good God I 
Where am I ? *tis open day I Some de« 

men shape 
Has thrown itself upon the parchment 

here — 
In fiital characters — to mode my vision. 

He reads the name of his son John. 
This is too much for the affectionate 
king— his heart is broken. The few 
scenes which follow are a preparation 
for the bst. He b removed to the 
Abbev of Chbon a dving man. His 
deathbed U powerfully described* 
Reason has forsaken him — the leadbg 
thought in his wild ravbgs b John's 
desertion. A moment's restoration 
of perfect mind occurs just before 
deatn — the king awakes and looks 
around shuddering :— . 

I8*t long we've dept f Tou do not an- 
swer me. 
Is any here ! 


Hy Vi9g9. 

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How much mispent, 

And yet we would not have it o*er again, 

No, not a day : and guilt itself oft fails 

To terrify us into love of life. 

Some moisture for my lips — ^they come 

Becket, thou art avenged t Let me not 

My lords, before the last : it*s all one 
dream- — 

The historic, swarming dream of drown- 
ing men 

And that prolonged into infinity : 

Draw nearer to the altar— that, alone — 

Alone— alone — 

Our extracts have been sufficiently 
ample to enable our readers to judge 
for themselves, of a work which we 
have read with no ordinary interest. 
We have no hope that this poem, or 
any other, will, for a while, break the 
trance that seems to benumb the public 
mind on all subjects of poetical litera- 
ture ; but it tells favourably for our 
author that he is engaged in such pur- 
suits at this unpropitious time. It 
would be little less than treason to the 
higher interests of humanity) to be- 
lieve that the indifference which the 
public has of late years manifested to 
poetry can continue. The fault has 
been partly in the poets themselvesi 
who, like the rest of the world, have 
been hurried along in the troubled 

stream of politics. Why should Tal- 
fourd, and Milnes, and Disraeli, and 
others lose, in the House of Com- 
mons, what is more than life ? If the 
blossoms of early genius have not ri- 
pened into perfect fruit, could a better 
result be anticipated ? When shall we 
again find a man of poetical genius 
feeling, like Wordsworth, or Southey, 
that public life is not his sphere? 
Success in public life they, too, could 
have commanded in a higher degree 
than most others ; but they wisely re- 
membered not what was to be attain- 
ed, but what was to be lost in the ex- 
change. Is the agitation, that disturbs 
all the peaceful relations of life> and 
renders nearly impossible all human- 
izing studies, the opportunity of pur- 
suing which is the chief reason for 
preferring social to savage life, ever to 
terminate ? Is tranquillity ever to re- 
turn ? 

The extracts which we have eiven 
from this poem afford evidence of very 
high talents, not alone, or even chiefly 
for dramatic poetry. We remember no 
FIRST poem of equal power. On our au- 
thor himself altogether depends his ul- 
timate success. No one effort, how- 
ever brilliant, can secure this. Like 
success in most other pursuits, it re- 
quires many sacrifices — nay, the de- 
votion of a life, 



*' There are lines in your poem — while lookmg it o*er — 
It struck me, I met a good many before. 
In Milton and Shakspeare." " Well, sir," muttered Pat, 
** I suppose you don't think them the worse, sir, for that." 

*« I'm not in debt.*' " Oh, you need not have said it. 
Where the deuce, my dear fellow, could you have got credit ?** 


Showing how • poet atniMd hii dooMttic enemy, and yet more hif Ariend. 

Shih Nong by Shuh Nong being badly treated. 
Sounded the vengeful gong of loi^ sing-tong. 

And then, ding dong, his verses he repeated 

To me-~Hong Cong — who never did him wrong ! 


Oh that, suspended from a long strong thong, 

Or two of them, — an hour, or not so long — 

Honflr Cong could see both Shih Nong and Shuh Nong, 

Kicldng the world before thenif pUy swing-swong ! 

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" For 80, under the strangest new vesture, the old great truth (since no Testurt 
can hide it) begins ac;ain to be revealed : That man is what we call a miraculous 
creature, with miraculous power over men ; and, on the whole, with such a life 
hi him, and such a world round him, as victorious analysis, with her physiologies, 
nervous systems, physio and metaphysic, will never completely mtme, to saj no- 
thing of explaining. Wherein alto the quack shall, in all ages, come in for his 


Ths magnet — which^ if we consider 
the import of its name, according to 
the moet probable etymology^ seems^ 
even from the period of its discovery^ 
to have stood in mystic repute, as a 
vehiole of powers akin to those with 
which the maoic of that early time 
had to do — coocentrated on itself, in a 
remarkable degree, the scientific curi- 
osity of the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries. A closer attention than 
the subject had, before that era, re- 
ceived, — observation more exact, and 
a course of experiments more syste- 
matic and more extended, — had 
brought into view the wide range and 
manysidednesfl of the magnetic phe- 
nomena, had revealed the curiously 
complex and harmonious working of 
the laws under which those pheno- 
mena stand, and opened glimpses into 
a region of speculation irresistibly in- 
?iting to the genius of an age suscep- 
tible, perhaps, beyond any that had 
preceded — certainly beyond those 
which have, up to the present time, 
•ncceeded it^ to the fascination of the 
marvellous and the occult. Of the 
natural philosophy of that epoch, 
magnetism (proper) is, accordingly, 
the fundamental and the pervading 
thought. The spirit of philosopliicid 
investigation had, one would say, com- 
mitted itself to the same guidance 
which, from immemorial time, had di- 
rected the path of geographical re- 
learch; and the wondrous agency 
that gave certainty to the course of 
the navigator over the untracked deep, 
was now to point the way also to the 
tdventnrous intellect, embarked on 
the eventful voyage of philosophic dis- 
oovoy. It was a time of the hope- 
fnllest bodings. Never had the pros- 
pects of phyaioal actenoe worn an as- 

Thomas Cahltlb. 

pect so fraught with promise. The 
riddle of ages seemed to hasten to its 
solution. With a deep joy, not un- 
mixed with awe, the observer of the 
results of magnetic experiment saw 
the moment approach, when the " veil 
of Isis** should be lifted by the hand 
of the goddess herself, and the lips, 
sealed ^om eternity, should unclose, 
to pronounce the key-word to the se* 
cret of secrets. Nay, was not the 
word already pronounced? in a low 
tone, indeed, but which the quick ear 
of Paracelsus had caught. Was it 
not — magnetism? Was not here the 
talisman to which, rightly applied, the 
sealed inner-chambers and alchymio 
workshop of nature would, nay did 
already in a sort, stand open ? Was 
not here the key, whereby the cabal- 
istic handwriting with which her works 
were inscribed was to be deciphered ? 
Was not here the dial-finger that told 
how her hidden mechanism went? 

These questions, the age, with cha- 
racteristic promptitude, answered in 
the affirmative ; and now unfolded 
themselves into fur form and goodly 
proportion, systems of the universe^ 
in which a certain divinatory instinct, 
or poetic anticipative sense, held the 
place which a later method of philo- 
sophizing has assigned to the inductive 
process. In these systems, framed on 
the principle (since fallen into desue- 
tude) of encumbering the movements 
of theory with the least amount of 
experiment possible, the collective 
phenomena of nature in all its depart- 
ments were resolved into one vast and 
infinitelv modified manifestation of the 
magnetic force i all operations, all 
processes, all of power, and life, tmd 
movement, that the gpreat frame] of 
physical being disolMfs^ w«r« made 10 

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revolve aronnd and refer themselves 
to the agency observable in the load- 
stone, as the heaven with all its lights 
revolves around the star to which the 
loadstone points, and by its relation 
to that star is every other star known 
in its place. Arabian fiction is not 
more prodigal of its wonders than 
were Paracelsus and his disciples when 
the magnet was the topic of discourse ; 
nor would it be easv to specify a cu- 
rious effect, presenting itself in the 
region of animal or of vegetable life, 
of organic or of inorganic bein?, that 
thb school — hicluding Van Helmont, 
Agrippa von Nettesheim, Kircher, 
and other acute and comprehensive 
intellects — do not trace to the opera- 
tion of magnetic agencies. Magnet- 
ism was, to these theorists (men of 
experiment, too, and to whom physical 
science owes much), the one universal 
cosmic force, the ethereal primal- sub- 
stance and ground-element, that per- 
vaded and informed with life all that 
subsbts in space, the basis of all natu- 
ral properties and effects, the inte- 
gratmg principle, that held all parts 
of the universe in organic relation to 
each other, and knit them, not as by 
mechanical outward connexion, or 
mere hooking together, but by inward 
living affinities, into an indissoluble 

When every thing was thus referred 
to the magnet, and its influence was 
but seen in various modification in all 
the conflicting and consenting activi- 
ties, the manifold antagonisms and 
harmonies of life in its several forms, 
it is not to be wondered at that the 
ground of medicinal efficacies should 
be sought in the operation of the 
same principle, and that the physician 
should come upon the thought of a 
direct exhibition of the magnetic 
agency in the treatment of diseases. 
If the whole materia medica acted no 
otherwise than magnetically, it seem- 
ed an inevitable conclusion, that the 
substance in which the magnetic virtue 
was most nakedly and in its least dif- 
ferentiated form developed should 
combine in itself the operation of the 
whole materia medica^ and that the 
use of it was the plainest and shortest 
road to the object in view. 

Accordingly, we And magnetism al- 
ready in the 17th century in a certain 
degree of reputation as a curative 
agent: not, however, animal mag- 

netism, or what we now call Mes- 
merism ; but what may be termed 
crude magnetism, the use of the load- 
stone itself. Medical orthodoxy set, 
perhaps, little store by it ; but it was 
greatly relied upon by the Paracelsists. 
Van Helmont, whose merits in che- 
mical discovery are acknowledged, — 
the medicus per ignem, as he styled 
himself, — was the most distinguished 
magnetizing physician of tlie seven- 
teenth century ; and his work, " De 
Magnetica Vulnerum Curatione," is a 
fair exponent of the views and prac- 
tice of his school. BurggrmTs " Bal- 
neum Dian» Magneticum, 1600,*' 
Kircher, "De Arte Magnetica, 1643,- 
and Maxwell's " Medicinse Mi^peticse 
libri tres, in quibus tam theoria quam 
praxis continetur, 1679," are works 
based on the same views. 

An extract which shall here be laid 
before the reader, from the writings 
of Van Helmont {opera omnia, Frank- 
fort, 1682), may show in what light 
the subject was considered by explo- 
rers of nature in that century. The 
learned Dutchman is defending his 
practice against the Jesuit Robert, 
who had, like some sagacious and par- 
ticularly anti- Jesuitic folks in our own 
days, denounced the magnetic proce- 
dure in medicine as an employment of 
" Satanic agency." An application of 
some of the following remarks may 
possibly suggest itself to the reader, 
more recent and nearer home than is 
furnished bv the times and the where- 
about of t^e ingenious Jesuit Van 
Helmont loquitur — 

'* He who holdeth magnetical cures 
to be devilish, must from the same 
grounds argue the foundation of all 
mafnetical phenomena to be sorcerv 
and the devil's art. Magnetism, which 
is an every-where-operative force, hath, 
bating the name, nothing new ; nor yet 
any thing absurd, unless it be for those 
who either laugh at, or set down to the 
operation of the devil whatsoever they 
do not understand. Magnetism is an 
unknown, peculiar power, of celestial 
nature, having great simUarity to the 
influences of the stars, and limited by 
no distance of place. Every created 
being possesseth its proper heavenly 
power. The outward man is of animal 
nature, yet withal the true image of 
God ; wherefore, if God acteth by word 
and sign, so must also man be capable 
of doing ; else were he no image of a 
living spirit, but of something inert and 

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whlKHit action. And, name we now ibis 
(tbe acting by word and sign) naffic, 
onljr the ill-instnicted can take h-ight at 
this word: name it, if that please you 
better, force of spirit. This magical 
facnlty lieth hid in the inner being of 
man ; it sleepeth, and beareth itself as 
one dnmk within ns ; through sin it is 

re to sleep, and behoyeth therefore to 
waked np again; for in the inner 
being, in the domain of the soul, is 
Qo^s kingdom, and here dwelleth the 
hidden secret power to work out of 
one's self, barely through the will and 
through a sign, and also to impress 
upon others the acting of this power, 
which worketh upon tne remotest ob- 
jects : which thing, as the great secret, 
I have hitherto shunned to reveal. Now 
if this proper power of man be thus 
proved to oe a natural power, it was 
r&rj absurd to believe, as hath been 
done, that the devil had a hand in it. 
Do bat open your eyes. The devil hath 
to this time, through your prodigious 
ignorance, stood in great fame ; ve nave 
been briofi^ng him, all this while, as I 
mav say, toe incense of fame ; the while 
ye nave been robbing yourselves of your 
natural dignity, as well as of the sight 
of year eyes, that ye might make the 
same an offering to the devil. 

** Yea, the will that is in man is the 
first and highest of all powers, the 
gronnd-cause of all movements ; for 
through the force of will in the Creator 
was all made, and this same will is a 
property of all spiritual beines, «on1y 
these are more or less limited in the 
putting' forth of it, each by other's 
counteraction. According as the force 
16 greater on the part of the in-working 
agent or of the withstanding, will the 
workins be with or without effect. The 
occult force inherent in man is a certain 
ecstatic power (of working without the 
limits of his material organization), 
which is not brou&^ht into action save 
through the impulsive agency of imagi- 
nation, kindlea by desire. It is a spi- 
ritual force, which cometh not down 

from heaven, mnch less ariseth ont of 
hell, but is of man himself, as the fire 
is of the flint. Ont of the will, namely, 
floweth the animal spirit, which taketh 
ideal subsistence, and, mediathig be- 
tween spirit and body, worketh thither- 
wards whither the intention of the will 
is to direct it." 

Thus far Van Helmont, in a style 
smellins^ perhaps less of \he lamp than 
of the laboratory, where he lived, ate, 
slept, and did whatsoever else is indis- 
pensable to be done by mortals, thirty 
years, in an atmosphere fuliginous 
enough, poking, one might say, in the 
bowels of nature, while a whole gene- 
ration of men less learned than he 
were rejoicing in the light of her face. 
Here he saw, as he assures us, in the 
year 1633, in a very distinct manner, 
his own soul, the seat of which he as- 
certained to be in the stomach and the 
spleen : it was, he relates, a spiritual 
substance, of a crystalline appearance, 
luminous, and having the figure of a 
man* ; a description of this part of 
our economy, which the reader will 
not find the less remarkable, nor, one 
hopes, the less authentic, for the very 
close correspondence it bears to that 
given by a visionist, or illuminated 
person, in the early church, as record- 
ed by Tertullian. " Among other 
things," declared this primitive e«- 
tatica, ** was shown to me the soul, in 
a bodily wise. I saw it, a spirit, in 
thinnest reflected radiance, luminous, 
of a celestial blue colourf ; for the 
rest, in a form in all respects human." 

From the foregoing we gather that, 
however the medical magnetism of the 
two preceding centuries differed in the 
form of its exhibition from that taught 
by Mesmer in the latter half of the 
eighteenth, the leading conception of 
a universally diffused fluid, or cosmic 

* We cannot but recognize here the same phenomenon which afterwards obtained 
the name of magnetic sleep- waking and self-mtuition. Van Helmont himself gives 
elsewhere an account of the means by which he came into this state ; it was by 
tasting, in the course of his experiments in vegetable poisons, the root of the 
aeonite: — 

•• My intuitions," says he, " immediately became much stronger and of greater 
compass, and this mental clearness was combined with a feeling of extraordinary 
pleasure. I slept not ; I dreamed not ; my health was perfect. I felt, perceived, 
and thought no longer with the head, but m the region of the stomach, as if know* 
ledge bad now taken her seat in that part." 

t Doctor von Meyer speaks of a olue phosphorescence as characteristic of the 
sycbio principle in its manifestations, and refers to this head the case of *' The 
^rae Dog," in the ** Diary of a Late Physician" — dogs having, according to the 
learned borgomaiter, blue souls, as well as men. 


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force, is common to both sjaiemB, and 
the aim of both is to bring this force 
to bear on the cure of diseases ; an 
object, the ground of the feasibility of 
which is placed in the affinity of this 
universal force with the principle of 
animal life. 

Anton Friedrich Mesmer, in whose 
hands the doctrine of therapeutic 
magnetism was to assume a new and 
considerably simplified form, was a 
native of the canton of Thurgau, in 
Switzerland, and a graduate in medi- 
cine of Vienna. Endowed with his 
full share of the somewhat mystical 
temperament of his nation, it is not 
wonderful that the speculations of the 
imaginative theorists of the era re- 
ferred to in the foregoing pages, and 
in particular those of his countryman 
Paracelsus, should have had a pro- 
found charm for his mind. In the 
year 1766 he came before the scientific 
public of his time with a dissertation 
'* On the Influence of the Planets on 
the Human Body.** The same agency, 
he taught, which gave such unequi- 
vocal tokens of its presence in the nuz 
and reflux of the sea, in a great mul- 
titude of atmospheric phenomena, and 
in the ceaseless revolutions of the ve- 
getable world, had as direct an opera- 
tion on the animal economy, and was 
to be traced in the periodical changes 
and stages of development observable 
in the body of man. As the vehicle 
of this influence he assumed a subtle 
fluid, diffused through the universe, 
pervading with equal facility the 
densest and the loosest material tex- 
tures, as little resisted by the solid 
ground that supports our tread, as by 
the light air that yields to the play of 
our respiratory organs. With this 
fluid for its medium, the planetary in- 
fluence announced itself in the height- 
ened or lowered intensity of weight, 
cohesion, elasticity, irritability, and 

other properties observable in bodiefly 
whether referable to mass or to or- 
ganization. To observe the working^ 
of this influence in the course and 
issue of diseases was now Mesmer's 
occupation for a series of years ; and, 
through the experience gained during 
this time, he found himself, as he be- 
lieved, in a position to predict with 
certainty the successive pnases and vi« 
cissitudes which would present them- 
selves in the course of a disease. This 
conducted him to the second mat 
feature of his doctrine, namely, that a 
reciprocal influence, corresponding to 
that of the heavenly bodies on each 
other, subsists also between the dif- 
ferent bodies on the earth, and in par- 
ticular between living organisms, and 
between the different parts of the 
same organism, — an influence capable* 
like other forces in nature, of being 
brought under the control of art, 
and directed to the arbitrarily pro- 
ducing, or, as it were, forcing, of the 
natural revolutions in our vital system. 
To this end we find him, in the jear 
1773, in consonance with the doctrine 
and practice of the elder magnetists, 
using the mineral magnet (magnetized 
rods of iron) in the treatment of dis* 
eases. His method appears to have 
been similar to that adopted after- 
wards by Perkins, the inventor of the 
metallic tractors. He stroked, with 
his magnetic rods, the parts in whick 
disease manifested itself, and accom- 
plished, we are told, cures of a re- 
markable character. One of the most 
distinguished experimental philoso- 
phers of the age, the Jesuit Hell, then 
professor of astronomy at Vienna, 
who took a lively interest in the inves- 
tigations of the Swiss physician, is 
said to have suggested to him this use 
of the magnet, as well as to have pre- 
pared for him the magnetic rods with 
which he operated.* 

* That a Jesuit — and the Jesuit Hell — should have assisted, so to say, obstet- 
rically, at the birth of animal map^etisra, is a fact which, with whatever reluctanoo 
one may admit the conviction of it, does tell terribly on the side of those ingenious 
people who consider the whole Mesmeric business as a covert and insidious agency 
the most improper ; of being designed, on the one hand, to confirm my JLord 
Shrewsbury in his attachment to the mass, and on the other, to encourage M. 
Jules Cloquet, and gentlemen of the medical profession in general, in the illaudable 

Eractice of not going to church. The Jesuit Hell ! Is here no hint to him that 
ath understancung to take it ? Did such a conjunction of names and characters 
bode nothing ? Doth not " Mystery of Iniquity" stand written on the forehead of 
it ? Should not the Penny Pulpit, small copper kettle-drum -ecclesiastical, be beat 
to defy the thing thus ushered into life under the ooigoined aospioea of Pan- 

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Meaner did not long continue this 
direct application of the magnet. 
Circunistances did not escape his 
quick eye which led him to suspect 
that the curative effects which had 
heen attributed to the mineral, were 
in realitj produced by the hand that 
held it ; and that, like a superfluous 
wheel in a machine, the employment 
of the material loadstone dia but en- 
cumber without helping. Here, then, 
the Swiss physician began to diverge 
from the path pursued by his prede- 
cessors, and to place in the human 
body itself the influence which they 
bad supposed to reside in the magnet. 
The circumstance that confirmed him 
in this view was one which presented 
itself on the occasion of an operation 
with the lancet, when the blood issued 
from the incision or retreated — flowed 
or ebbed, one might say — according 
as the operator (Mesmer himself) ap- 
proached and touched, or receded 
from the patient. 

This curious circumstance suggests 
two trains of thought, one of which 
arises out of the analogy between this 
influence of the magnetizer on the 
course of the fluids in his patient, and 
that of the moon on the flux and re- 
flux of the sea. It tells for the truth 
of Mesmer's hvpothesis of a recipro- 
cal influence of terrestrial bodies, es- 
pecially of living organic systems, on 
each other, corresponding to that of 
the celestial — man acting on man, as 
planet on planet ; and it leads us to 
the conjecture that the moon may 
affect the mass of waters in our planet, 
not merely by its gravity, but by cer- 
tain relations of polarity, akin to the 
magnetic or the electric influence. 
Would not an effect of gravity tell 
still more markedly upon the far lighter 
and more mobile mass of the atmos- 
phere, so that every fluctuation of the 
sea should be accompanied by a cor- 
responding and still more forcible im- 
?rc8sion on the currents of the air ? 
f ow that the moon does exert an in- 
flnence on the atmosphere is undoubt- 
edly true ; but it b an influence different 

in kind from that which she has on 
the waters ; and this seems to point to 
dynamic affinities of different kinds. 
The German astronomer, Bessel, ob- 
served in the nucleus of the comet of 
1835, a regularly oscillating motion, 
which he explained by the hypothesis, 
that the sun did not only exercise a 

fravitative attraction on that body, 
at that sun and comet also stood in a 
polar relation to each other. Hence 
Bessel was led to adopt the law of po- 
larity as an element in astronomical 
calculations. "To the theory of a 
polar attraction and repulsion between 
the planets," says Doctor Passavant, 
(^Inquiries respecting Vital Magnetism 
and Clairvoyance, 1837,J ** certain 
anomalies in the proportion of their 
distances from one another, lend pro- 
bability ; some planets standing nearer 
or farther asunder than they should, 
according to the law Wurm has laid 
down for their relative distances. Ac- 
cording^ to this law, the distance of the 
earth from the sun should be 210 semi- 
diameters of the latter ; instead of 
which it is 216. The distance of Mars 
from the sun should be 336 semidiame- 
ters, but is no more than 329. Thus 
the earth is six semidiameters of the 
sun farther from, and the planet Mars 
seven nearer to, that body, than the 
law of gravitation would assign to 
these orbs as their respective places. 
This is hardly to be conceived as pos- 
sible,but on the hypothesis oiquaHita' 
tive attraction, an assignable ground 
of which we have in electricity and 

The other subject of reflection 
which the phenomenon, observed by 
Mesmer, suggests, is thiat of a belief, 
prevalent in tne middle ages, that the 
wounds of a murdered person would 
bleed if the body were approached by 
the murderer. The persuasion referred 
to was not confined to the vulgar, but 
was judicially recognised, and made the 
ground of an ordeal, to which persons 
suspected of murder were compelled 
to submit. On what observation of 
facts the belief in question may have 

demonium and the Propag^anda? To be sure.> we have a Jesuit Robert on 
the other side, seeming, at least, to take our view of the subject. But what if 
this were a blmd — a strategic artifice of one who fain masks his play ; and, of his 
store, surely could spare a Jesuit to fight, or seem to fight on the adverse side ? 
Bvpf^e this Jesuit Robert a spy in our anti-Mesmerite, anti-mystery-of-iniquita- 

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rested^ it would be beside our present 
purpose to inquire : supposing it not 
without foundation, it would point to 
a magnetic relation between the mur- 
dered and murderer ; a ghastly con- 
ception, but which contains the solu- 
tion of a great riddle — that vis sail' 
guinis ultra mortem, which, in a good 
and an evil sense, has formed an arti- 
cle of the belief of all ages, and of the 
most different tribes of men. On 
this subject Franz Baader is lumin- 
ous: — 

The life, he remarks, is in the blood ; 
but, when the blood is murderously 
spilt, this ''life,** (a subtle essence, 
which, after Jacob Bbhm, he names 
the tincture of the blood — properly 
the assimilative, or sanguinific princi- 
ple, which combines and, as it were, 
alchemically transmutes into blood the 
various material substances into which 
that fluid is analysable by the che- 
mist,) being divorced from its proper 
sanguineous vehicle, is drawn to, and 
absorbed by, the blood of the mur- 
derer, which, on some unfathomable 
ground, (whereof, however, Baader 
appears to have got to the bottom,) in 
this moment stands open to it. By 
this (so to speak) transcendental trans- 
fusion, a "relation," or communio vita, 
is violently established between the 
murderer and the murdered; which 
relation (a certain consanguinity) re- 
veals itself in sundry ways, and, in 
particular, by the perturbation and 
doleful unrest in which it holds both 
parties— the dead and the living. 
Herein, then, lies the force of the ex- 
pression — to require at the hand of the 
slayer the blood of his victim : — the 
blood of the victim, at least the "tinc- 
ture" of it, the "life • that dwelt in it, 
is actually in the slayer" s possession : he 
is a debtor ; and the takmg of his life 
is an act of justice, not to society 
(which thereby does but lose two 
members instead of one) but to him 
whose life he has tahen — whose life he 
holds, bound up in such mystic inti- 
mate union witn his own life, that only 
le taking away of the latter 
rmer be given back to its 
limant. Thus, the soul of 
d man haunts his murderer, 
e-will, but by inward con- 
docs not relentlessly pursue 
9 irresistibly draws it after 
n his blood dwells the san- 
tincture which it cannot 

leave, aronnd which it hovers fiiscina- 
ted, to which it ever strives in vun to 
re-unite itself, so that it cannot rest, 
nor suffer him to rest who holds it as 
it were charmed — spun round with 
invisible magic threads, which it can- 
not break if it would. And therefore^ 
also, can he that has shed blood not 
escape from the spot where he has shed 
it, but will circle round the same, and 
stealthily return to it, and is drawn 
towards it, from whatever distance, as 
by magnetic force ; because that 
"tincture,** which has entered into his 
own blood, yearns still towards the 
blood it has left. But we digress. 

We have seen, then, Doctor Mes- 
mer discontinue the use of his magne- 
tic rods, being convinced that they had 
either had nothing at all to do with 
the beneficial effects his treatment, up 
to this period, had been attended with, 
or had, at most, acted merely as con- 
ductors of the virtue resident in his 
own person. Any other rod, probably, 
would have served the purpose as 
well as one of magnetized iron, the 
real service rendered by all such aux- 
iliaries being that of concentrating, or 
fixing and directing on a eiven point, 
the force of the operator's maagination 
and will. Perhaps the manipulations, 
magnetic passes, oreathings, and such 
like, to which Mesmer afterwards had 
recourse, did but serve the same end, 
of giving, as it were, a body, a form, 
to the operator's intention. The ef- 
fects produced by Perkin's metaUic 
tractors were, it is said, equally produ- 
ced by metalWc'looking tractors of 
painted wood. Of course they were. 
Perkinism was, as far as one can see, 
but an ill-understood and worse ap- 
plied Mesmerism ; and the " tractor," 
in the one system, did what the magnet 
did in the other — it gave a mould to 
the mental act : it was to the imagina- 
tion what the plummet is to the eye: 
or, might not one say, it was a cAtro- 
plast, proper to give steadiness to the 
play of a beginner on the human piano- 
forte. Be this as it might, Mesmer 
had, to use another figure, now learned 
to swim without the aid of his corks, 
and so threw them away. Hencefor- 
ward, also, he distinguished animal 
from mineral magnetism ; and in the 
year 1775— Doctor Stork, the em- 
press's own medical adviser, having no 
ear for his doctrine — he laid his theory 
of reciprocal influences (der Wsck* 

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tdrwirhmgeML) formallj before the 
w<»-ld, in a letter to a foreign physi- 

This theory was already lomewhat 
modified by the experience he had 
gained since the appearance of his first 
dissertation, bat was as yet far from 
having acquired the form which the 
present doctrine of animal magnetism, 
homoris gratia termed Mesmerism, 
wears. In Vienna it was misunder- 
stood, partly confounded with mineral 
magnetism, partly misrepresented with 
intention, made an object of odium and 
persecution, its founder stigmatised as 
a Tisionary, and such persons as had 
submitted themselves to his curative 
treatment, declared dupes or impos- 
tors. In spite, however, of a hostility 
somewhat unscrupulous in its choice 
of weapons and mode of attack, 
Mesmer's reputation gained instead of 
losing ground. In the years 1774-5 
he visited Sweden, Switzerland, and 
Bavaria, in which last-mentioned coun- 
try his character of scientific foreigner 
procured him easy access to the 
elector, Maximilian Joseph III. This 
prince, who had received a better edu- 
OBtkm than it is often the lot of royal 
personaffes to enjoy, and whose per- 
sonal thirst for knowledge, and zeal 
for the propagation of it among his 
people, w^e equally great, heard with 
mterest the doctrines propounded by 
the learned stranger; and Mesmer 
was, not long after, created a member 
of Uie Academy of Sciences at Mu- 
nidi, founded in 1759 by Maximilian 
himself. The year following he was 
invited into Hungary, where, we are 
told, he effected important cures. 
Hence he returned to Vienna. 

Loath to encounter a renewal of the 
bitterness of which he had already 
been the object in the imperial city, he 
resolved now to refrain from all medi- 
cal practice ; but, whether by the per- 
suasion of others, or by the restless 
impulse to activity, and to the amas- 
sing of new experiences, which could 
not fail to make itself sensible to a 
mind like his, he was soon brot^ht to 
renounce a resolution so little conge- 
lual to the temper of an enthusiastic 
explorer of nature : he took several 
patients under his care, amone whom, 
a source to him of much subsequent 
vexation, was the celebrated vooilist, 
Paradies, then in her eighteenth year. 
She had at the age of four or five 

years lost her ught, through an affec- 
tion of a paralytic nature^ and was the 
victim of a nervous melancholy* with 
convulsive fits, and periodical accesses 
of Quidness. Mesmer had her under 
his hands for a considerable time, dur- 
ing which he was watched by a host 
of eyes, that wasted for very longing 
to discover something equivocal, some 
false step, some evidence of incapacitv, 
or, better still, of duplicity, of wittingly 
false pretension, in the proceeding of 
the hated innovator, who would de- 
trude from its place, with quite new 
mystification, that which was estab- 
lished and venerable. Indifferent to 
the petty arts of annoyance of which 
he found himself the object, ( and to 
which the relations of the patient ap- 
pear to have lent themselves in a re- 
markable way,) our magnetizer went 
on with what he bad taken in hand, 
and at last, to the astonishment of all 
Vienna, pronounced that Fraulein Pa- 
radies could see. The family of the 
young lady, however, denying that 
such was the fact, while Mesmer, on 
the other hand, adhered resolutely to 
his assertion of it, a special commis- 
sion was named by Maria Theresa — 
whose namesake and protegee Fraulein 
Paradies was — to examine into and re- 
port upon the case. 

In the presence of this commission 
Mesmer presented to his patient a 
number of objects, the several colours 
of which, on being asked, she correctly 
stated: there was, or appeared to be, 
sure enough, a restoration of vision, 
dim indeed, but promising to become 
clearer, the cure being but in its first 
stage. Mesmer believed his cause 
triumphant. The commission, how- 
ever, was not so soon satisfied ; the 
magnetizer was required to leave the 
room, and the experiments already 
made were repeated — with a totally 
different result. The patient was unable 
to distinguish the colour of any object 
presented to her: she was evidently 
as blind as ever, as blind as the most 
clear-sighted anti-Mesmerite could 
wish. The conmiission gave in its re- 
port, the tenor of which was, that Mes- 
mer, in|assertingthat Fraulein Paradies 
had, under his treatment, recovered 
her sight, had been Ruilty of falsehood ; 
and further, that her having a/^- 
reiUly distinguished the colours of the 
objects presented to her by the mag- 
netizer, was no doubt the result of a 

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BIcSffiBTtSfti • 


preconcerted system of signals between 
tier and him. 

This report placed Mesmer in the 
position of a social and professional out- 
law : there was nothing which it was 
not permitted to saj of him, and there 
was a pretty general disposition to say 
the worst Dispirited at length, or 
disgusted, by the untiring animosity of 
his opponents, he resolved on quitting, 
not only Vienna, but Germany, which 
he did m 1777. It is to be observed, 
however, that he never retracted or 
qualified his statement as to the cure 
of Fraulein Paradies, but to the last 
maintained — let an imperial commission 
report as it pleased — that the blind 
songstress had, under his hands, be- 
come, to say the least, a purblind one. 
The truth of the matter, as well as we 
can judge it now, appears to be this : 

Fraulein Paradies, under the mag- 
netic process employed by her physi- 
cian, had come into a state of clairvoy' 
ance, (lucid vision,) and, that peculiar 
relation, (community of sensorial pow- 
er, developing itself in the patient as a 
negative, in the agent, as a positive 
polarity,) termed rapport tnagnetique, 
subsisting between tnem — she had, in 
somno-vigil, really distinguished the 
colours of the objects upon which his 
attention was fixed, and which he pre- 
sented to her. At this period Mesmer 
was as yet unacquainted with the now 
familiar phenomenon of clairvoyance, 
and it is not wonderful that he mistook 
it, as it presented itself in his patient^ 
for a restoration of ordinary vision. 
But when the commission ordered 
Mesmer out of the room, it is very 
conceivable that the clairvoyante should 
have had no perception of the objects 
presented to ner by its members, inas- 
much as no one of these gentlemen 
was, so to speak, her sensorial positive 
pole. Had the magnetizer been called 
in a second time, and the experiments 
been once more repeated through his 
instrumentality, sapient commissioners 
would, very probably, have gone away 
not much the wiser for this new trial ; 
but it is just possible that they might, 
by a somewhat less slovenly attention 
than they appear to have bestowed 
upon his operations, have been led at 
least to spare him, as well as his pa- 
tient, the odious imputation of having 
first concerted a lie, and then juggled 
together in confederation to support 
h. Vot tibe restf this was no doubt 

the easiest solution of the riddle, and 
the way to get rid of Mesmer. 

It may here be observed, that the 
blindness of Paradies was not of a kind 
formally incurable: it was the effect 
of functional disease. There was no 
disorganization — the structure of the 
eye remained unaltered ; it was the 
sensibility of the nerve of vision alone 
that was impaired. The loss of sight 
was but symptomatic — as were the con- 
yulsive fits and the manifestations of 
mental disorder — of general nervons 
derangement ; defect of action in one 
part of the system involving excess of 
it in another. The object of the Mes- 
meric treatment was to efiPect a due 
distribution and equilibrium of nervous 
activity : with the recovery of sight 
was to be expected the cessation of the 
convulsions : the periodical frenzy 
would have disappeared along with 
the habitual melancholy. 

That she should have been able, 
with the first glimmerings of returning 
vision, not only to distinguish different 
colours, but at once to give each cnlour 
its right name, implies an act of me- 
mory, a recalling of impressions re- 
ceived in earliest childhood, hardly 
less trying to our powers of belief than 
the restoration of siffhtitself. But an 
almost preternatural clearness of me- 
mory is among the most constant phe- 
nomena of the state of magnetic sleep- 
waking, in which the remotest past 
stands out again into the foreground 
of consciousness, and we discern with 
a feeling of awe that the vanished 
has not ceased to exist, that the forgot- 
ten still hovers near us, that whatsoever 
we have done, and suffered, and seen, 
has entered into us, and is inseparable 
from us, and that we have but to go 
into our deeper being to find it. Truly 
a strange significance lies in the fact — 
that we remember. It tells us that 
the past, the whole past, is with us in 
the present — that the past, the whole 
past, is accompanying us into the fu- 
ture — yea, that out or that very future 
into which we are travelling, the re- 
flected image of the past, the whole 
past, is coming up to meet us. How 
of^en in dreams, especially in the dream 
of fever, which has ever something of 
the character of sleep-waking about it, 
are we carried back to the scenes of a 
long-forgotten time — to some moment 
of peril — some hair-breadth *scape— or 
perhaps to some occurrence of an in- 

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ligiuficaot kind enough — the sight of 
some boildinff, some garden, some bend 
of a road, or a river with a bridge, 
some group of people, that gleams up- 
on as, clear, minute, liTing, as a came- 
n-obseura picture: which we relate 
afterwards as the phantasy of our dream, 
but whieh they under whose eye our 
childhood was passed, can tell us was 
no phantasy, but a memory. 

" A patient of mine," relates a phy- 
sician in Prussia, " in a paroxysm of 
intermittent feyer, saw herself^, as a 
h'ttle child, lying in a loam pit, and a 
nurse-maid wringing her hands on tho 
brink. The scene changed, and she 
law herself as a child somewhat older, 
iittmg at the foot of a bed, in which 
her mother lay, and repeating a certain 
prayer. She held all this for the mere 
creation of her delirious fancy, but her 
father, to whom she reUted it, assured 
her that she had seen true images of 
her earliest life ; that she had indeed, 
when quite an infant, fallen into a loam 
pit through the negligence of the maid 
who had the care of her ; and that, 
some years later, during a dangerous 
illness of her mother, she had sat oon- 
tinnally at the foot of the sick bed, and 
repeated the prayer of her dream, 
which had been taught her by her mo- 
ther when she was but beginning to 
speak. In a state of health the patient 
bad not the slightest recollection of 
either of these occurrences : the early- 
learned and long-forgotten prayer has 
»Dce the period of her dream remained 
fixed in her memory." 

In 1778 Mesn>er made his appear- 
ance at Paris. Here he laid the prin- 
ciples of his doctrine before the sawm$ 
and physicians in a series of theses ; 
and was fortnnate enough to aooom- 
pKsh a number of cures, of a kind cal- 
culated to draw attention, the rather 
as his patients chanced to belong to the 
more conspicuous classes of society. 
The medical faculty looked, however, 
with not inexcusable suspicion on one 
who made a mystery of his mode of 
practice ; and national prejudice 
wrooght strongly against the credit of 
a dts«>Tery claiming for its author not 
only a foreigner, but a German. The 
temper of the age was averse to every 
^trine that did not base itself on the 
tritest materialism, or that suffgested 
the (however remotely) possible ex- 
istenee, within the wide compass of 
^ren and earth, of something more 

than was — we will not say dreamed of 
— but, with a clear waking sense ap- 
prehended, and comprehended, and 
definitively placed, and named, and 
explained, in the philosophy of a French 
encyclopediste. It was the shallowest 
era of human intellect, wide awake to 
all that lay on the surface, but without 
sense for aught that had its seat beneath 
the very outer husk of things. In 
Mesmer's own manner of procedure 
there was, also, much that was of a 
nature to impress even unprejudiced 
observers unfavourably, and as wearing 
an air of calculated /jrerf^e. Arrange- 
ments savouring of the theatrical ; 
halls which a softened light pervaded ; 
a subdued stndn of music, that died 
and came again and again — and again 
sank and rose ; and the doctor himself 
eliding about in long stole, not of any 
fashion affected by the time ; his pa- 
tients, the while, sitting mute and ex- 
pectant around " their Magnetic Mys- 
tery, which to the eye was mere tubs 
with water." What could be farther 
than all this was, from any semblance 
of an intelligent medical practice ? or 
what could be more repugnant to the 
spirit of a class of men bv habit scep- 
tical, more acute than proround, shrewd, 
more open to the impressions of the 
ludicrous than of the solemn, more 
familiar with the weaknesses of human 
nature than with its strength — with 
its ridiculous than with its sublime 
aspects — and quick to detect, in the 
sublime itself, the latent ridiculous: 
men, generally, of a good heart, but 
of a wicked wit, to whom, through the 
high epic, the element of the burlesque 
is ever peeping out, and who are eoually 
awake to, and intolerant of, all '« hunk- 
bug*' that is not professional and 
of a certain standing? 

At the same time, it would perhaps 
be hasty, at once to set down the com- 
plicated machinery of the haqut^f with 
the accompanying wixardry of music, 
the Egyptian habit, and so on, to the 
score of quackery, and affectation of 
the mysterious. Mesmer probably 
believed all these auxiliaries needful to 
the effects he had in view ; it was by 
slow degrees that he learned to sim- 
plify his practice. Besides, he had 
to act on the nervous system, and 
made no secret of the important part 
which the imagination of the patient 
had to play in the cure. And, as Do- 
gald Stewart argties, if a man can b** 

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cured through his imagination^ why 
should any doctor scruple so to cure 
him ? Is it more professional to kill 
a patient by potion and pill^ thaiL to 
cure him by pantomime and the music 
of Oberon ? It may be more suitable 
to the dignity of medical science^ but 
the question is — will the patient like it 
as well? Mesmer's practice might be 
dupery ; but it was pleasanter to be 
duped into staying in this world, than 
to he sent in the most honourable and 
above-board manner possible into a 
better. It was an affront, to be sure, 
but one which it required no super- 
human effort of meekness to pocket. 

One would not, for all this, deny 
that an element of charlatanism does 
seem to have entered somewhat largely 
into Mesmer's character, as it does in- 
to that of his nation (not the German, 
but the Swiss) pretty generally. It 
was certainly more like the quack than 
the loyal servant of science to keep his 
alleged discoverv secret, and to traffic 
with it as he did, refusing the offer of 
the French government to purchase 
the disclosure of it for twenty thousand 
livres, and selling it to |private persons, 
when once his subscription-list of a 
hundred could be got full, at a hundred 
louis a head. The spirit of trading is 
in its place in what belongs to the me- 
chanical arts ; but the nobleness of sci- 
ence repudiates it The physician who 
believes himself to have made an im- 
portant discovery in therapeutics will, 
if he understand and be worthy of his 
high vocation, hasten to promulgate 
it, and not keep shop with it, taking 
care of number one, and counting sci- 
ence and the welfare of men as second- 
ary things. But for this also the mis- 
fortune of Mesmer's birth is the best 
excuse. Point d'argent,point de Suisse'^ 
the old proverb did but find a new 
verification — ** the wise saw " a " mo- 
dern instance." 

Mesmer*8 fame spread rapidly among 
the noble, the literary, the gay and 
beautiful of the French capital, and 
his mystic halls became a favourite re- 
sort both of those who were, and of those 
who fancied themselves ill. Unnui 
brought many. People were tired of 
being eternally witty, eternally philo- 
sophical, eternally shut up to the driest 
prose and matter-of-fact of life. A 
moment's escape £rom bon mot$ and 
ia raison, let what would offer it, was 
felt to be a blessing. Then they had 

parted with their Christianity, and 
wanted something to believe in. So 
they sat, linked together bythefingersy 
in circles, each circle round a covered 
tub, in which was water, with broken 
glass and scorise of iron, laid in strata, 
and, at the bottom, bottles, with more 
water and some iron filings, placed 
star-wise round an iron rod, that went 
up through a hole in the middle of the 
tub-cover ; and, round this centre hole, 
other holes in a circle, and other iron 
rods that went up through them, and 
which, at a certain height, bent off at 
a right angle, each rod to a separate 
patient ; and the patients held each his 
(or more generally her) rod, (when they 
did not hold each other's hands,)moving 
the point of it gently up and down, 
or from side to side ; and Dr. Mesmer 
or Dr. Deslon from time to time laid 
hold of the centre rod, moving, or, 
as it were, churning with it up and 
down in the tub. The centre rod it- 
self was bent at the top into a kind of 
finger, which could be made to point 
to this or the other quarter of the hea- 
vens, as the magnetizer judged it ex- 
pedient, thus puttine the tub en rapport 
with the universal frame of things. 
Hempen cords* afterwards exchanged 
for woollen, were also attached to this 
middle rod, and extended to each of 
the patients, who could put them round 
their respective waists, arms, legs, or 
elsewhere at pleasure, according to the 
seat of disease. Two years later, a 
globular mirror was added to the ap- 
paratus. It stood on the top of the 
middle rod, so that the patients, as 
they sat, could see themselves, dimi- 
nished and somewhat caricatured; 
which, as Wolfart in his Asdepieioh 
tells us, ''sensibly heightened the effect 
of the whole, and brought on both 
more swiftly and more surely the 
states of magnetic sleep and sleep- 

Thus, then, they sat, en rapport 
with their doctor, and with each other 
(to say nothing of the elemental influ- 
ences, streaming from the quarter of 
the heavens to which the '' central 
rod" was pointing,) — a communion, 
not of saints exclusively, ** expecting," 
as Mr. Carlyle has it, " the magnetic 
afflatus, and new-manufactured heaven- 
on-earth ;" — expecting, at least, emo- 
tion—of which waking life was be- 
come — ^by very dint of being too wide 
awake — deplorably barren to them. 

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This went oD—the medical hcultj 
flieeriDg, but the patients, or a good 
proportion of them, getting well, or 
tancjing that they got well — until the 
jear 1784, when the kine, Louis XVI., 
after the example of his mother-in- 
law of Austria, appointed a commission 
to examine into a thing which was 
maldi^ fo mndi noise. This commis- 
sioQ consisted of four members of the 
medical faculty of Paris, to whose 
nmnber, at their own request, were 
added ive members of the Royal 
Academy of Sciences. 

The task laid upon this commission 
was Drindpally to investigate the facts 
of Mesmerism, and to give an account 
of the same. It is worthy of remark 
that the commission did not, in con- 
ducting its examination, enter into 
communication with Mesmer, but with 
Doctor Deslon, his associate, and with 
his colleague Jumelin. A report ap- 
peared, but as» instead of giving an 
account of the facts observed, it 
addressed itself, almost exclusively, 
to the object of proving that the effects 
of the magnetic processes were to be 
attributed solely to the power of 
imsgination, the Society of Medical 
Science appointed another commission 
with the same task, and published also 
its report, which agpreed on the whole 
with that of the former. Jussieu, 
however, a member of the royal com- 
mission, not only declined to append 
his name to the report of his col* 
ksffues, but published one of his own, 
£&ring essentially from theirs, and 
much more favourable to magnetism. 
Both reports, namely, that of the 
royal commission, and that of the 
commission of the society, were re- 
ceived with some disappointment in 
die sdentific circles of Paris. Men 
had waited with impatience for a 
statement that might be relied on, of 
the fibcts of the case, and were not 
Mtisiled to get, instead of this, the 
opinion of certain academicians, who, 
in a matter as new to them as to 
odier men, and of which many hun- 
dreds had seen at least as much as 
diey, with questionable modesty offered 
to the French public their individual 
pcrsoasions for truth admitting of no 
farther discussion. The royal man- 
date had been. See for your fellows— 
the commission understood it to run, 
Tkak for your fellows. But really, 
rojai anthoority to examine into a thing 
IS to act like a kind of mental 
Vol. XXin.— No. 133. 

gutta Serena, The jud^ent of one 
man, who goes to see for himself, is 
worth more than that of forty that go 
to see for the king: the one goes, 
because he wants to see ; the forty 
ffo, because they have to report. 
Learned corporations and faculties, 
also, are, in what relates to learning, 
conservative to a degree, and seem to 
exist, primarily, to the end of taming 
down all undue ardour in the investi- 
gation of truth, and of placing a salu- 
tary check upon some presumable 
tendency in knowledge to a too rapid 
expansion. And how should commis- 
sions of such learned bodies not be as 
the bodies that commission them? 
Will not the learned body commission 
just those — can it commission any 
other than just those, who are surest 
to bring it no light? King Louis 
commissioned those, whom a royal 
personage was likely to commission : 
the Society of Medical Science com- 
missioned those, whom a royal society 
was likely to commission ; and so king 
and society got from their respective 
commissions just what it was most 
natural, but least important, for them 
to get : they got, namely, not so much 
an account of what Doctor Mesmer 
did, and which happened or did not 
happen in consequence, as a statement 
of the impression of a small number of 
medical and non-medical gentlemen, 
that, whatever the doctor might do, 
and whatever might be the effects 
consequent upon his proceedings, the&e 
effects were not attributable to the 
cause the doctor supposed, but to 

** All effects of the imagination I"— 
Perhaps so, gentlemen : but suppose 
you were to consider for a moment— 
What is, then, the imagination ? And, 
wherein are " effects " the worse for 
being of its producing ? Is the ima- 
gination a certain capability of being 
made to hold that to he, which is not? 
Has it no other part to play in our 
curious spiritual economy than that of 
being lied unto ? Is to imagine merely 
to represent to ourselves the unreal as 
real, or things in general as being 
any thing, every thing, but what they 
are ? It were but bad psychology to 
say so. But of this elsewhere. 

The academicians knew how to 
make their views the current ones at 
court, and in the solans ; or p'erhaps 
it would be juster to say, that their 
report was but the reflection of the 


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views already* and a priori^ formed in 
those bii^b regions* in which a previous 
knowledge of facts had never been 
foond necessary to the formation of a 
judgment ; naj, would in most cases 
have materially interfered with the 
delightful fadlity of that prooess. It 
is* perhaps* not more than will now 
be acknowledged by most well-informed 
people, that the report* about which 
so much noise has been made* really 
owed the respect with which it was 
received in Europe far more to the 
names appended to it than to any thing 
more intrinsic. Of these names* one 
of the most illustrious* that of Frank- 
lin* belonged to one now in his seventy- 
ninth year* included in the commission* 
one cannot but think, chiefly honoris 
gratia f and who* sick in body* and 
kden with cares of state* took little or 
no interest in the matter to be investi- 
ptted* and saw no better wa^ of return- 
ing the compliment paid him* than by 
subscribing without captious or mis- 
trustful questionings whatever men* 
so distinguished as his colleagues* had 
seen go<^ to present as their report 
and his. Of the remaining names* 
there is not one tiiat outweighs that 
which Jussieu threw into the opposite 

The opposition of the medical pro- 
fession* and of the philoaophes gene- 
rallv* did not prove altogether so fatal 
to the new doctrine as might have been 
expected. At Paris* Strasbourg* and 
elsewhere* associations were formed* 
under the name of Sodetia Harmo* 
niqwSf the object of which was to 
keep pure* and further to illustrate 
and develope by means of experiment* 
tiie doctrine of Mesmer. Pnysegnr* 
at Strasbourg* and Barberin, at 
Lyons* may be considered to have 
founded the most important of these 
societies. These two magnetists de* 
parted widely from the mode of treat- 
ment which Mesmer* at least in his 
earlier practice* employed. Mesmer* 
holdinff the cause ot morbid action in 
generM to be defect of irritability in 
uie muscular fibre* beheld in msffnet* 
ism* chiefly* the means of supplying 
this defect* and herein supposed its 
remedial efficacy to reside. Confor- 
mably to this view* the magpnetio influ- 
ence was strengthened as much as 
possible* till it was heightened to a 
degree 'that generated vehement reac- 
tion* which presented itself under the 
form of convulsionsi or at least of 

violent spasms. This was what he 
called the *' crisis*" which he looked 
upon as a necessary remedial process 
or nature* a reaction of the sohd parts 
upon the exciting causes of disease 
(which he placed in the obstructed 
flow* and consequent depravation of 
the juices)* tending to restore the 
balance and harmonious working of 
all vital activities. On this aocount 
he* and the roagnetizers of his school^ 
had their so called chamhres dg criie, — 
chambers* the floor and walls of wfaick 
were covered with mattresses* that 
the orisiacs, in their pythio fury and 
convulsive writhines and tumblingi^ 
might not be in danger of hurting 
themselves. At a later period Mes- 
mer followed the example of Puysegur, 
in discontinuing the use of these cham- 
bers* which the latter magnetist* not 
altogether without justice* named 
*' chambres denfer ;" and which a gen- 
tler method of magnetic treatment 
rendered unnecessary. Puyseg^*with 
his friends at Strasbourg* esdiewed 
the stormy and tumultuous '' crisis*** 
and excluded from his practice all that 
went beyond the producing sensations 
of repose and well-being. He rejected 
the use of the baquet / and the mani- 
pulations to which he sometimes had 
reoourse were of a much less forcible 
kind than those employed by Mesmer, 
who seems to have kneaded and iham* 
pooed his patients* without much ten* 
demess: the agency on which ha 
chiefly relied was that of the will* fixed 
in its highest concentration upon 
the patient. Barb^rin emploved this 
psycnic agency exclusively* admittbg 
only volition in fktth as the instrument 
of producing all the magnetic eifectk 
This was, in some measure* a return 
to the doctrine of the elder magnetists. 
We have seen how Van Helmont speaks 
of the power of the will. To the same 
effect Paracelsus says* '' You are to 
know that the operation of the will Is 
a great point in medicine. The ima- 
gination is the engine to effect what 
the will intends. The imagination is 
enforced and perfected through faith* 
for all doubt bireaketh the work : faith 
must confirm the imagination* for ^th 
is that that determineth the will : im- 

Eerfection in men's imagining and be- 
eving is the cause that their arts are 
uncertain* which yet but for this might 
be of fullest certainty." In entire 
conformity with this doctrine* Barberin 
direotsd his will by a strenuous |uid 

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f effort upon his parent ; and 
aldioiigb to this mental aot Pa^segpir 
added a certain external process, the 
latter seems to have been intended 
onlj as a help to the bringing the will 
into the direction and actiritj desired* 
The outward play of the hand was, 
as the ttte of the magnet was in the 
bands of Van Helmont or Kircber, 
a Tehiele to the inward aot of the 
^nrit. And it is remarkable that« 
under this new and more spiritual 
procedure, a new class of phenomena, 
•f a highlj spiritual character, pre- 
sented theoi8elves,^phenomena un* 
known to Mesmer, though familiar to 
tboee elder practitioners in magnet- 
ism. It was in Pnjrsegur's hands that 
the sleep-waking state first assumed a 
distinct form ; at least he wa^ the 
Arst to notice and describe it^ though 
^e ha? e seen it, or something like it, 
oecur, unreoogaized, in Mesmer's 
wractiee at Vienna^ in the case of Frau« 
win Paradies* Van Helmont had 
eridentlj had experience of this state, 
and eren of that of clairvoyance, in his 
own person t witness his account of 
the soul, her locality and appearance. 
And we should perhaps not be very 
far from the truth, were we to adopt 
the eonrerse of a proposition already 
referred to in these pages, vi^. : that 
Mesmerism is Satanic agency; and 
say, that the greater part of the 
all^iped Satanic agency of the Middle 
Ages, was Mesmerism, in its higher 
and spiritual forms. 

The French revolution coming on, 
Mesmer withdrew from the disturbed 
Uxidf and took up his abode in his na- 
tive Thurgau^ where he lived in pri- 
vacy, practising the improved manhe- 
tism of the Strasbourg school, only 
lor the benefit of the poor, — the rich, 
it is possible, preferring other doctors 
and another method of treatment. At 
an advanced age, twenty years after 
the appearance of his Letter to a Fo* 
reign Physician^ he gave his doctrine, 
rectified and confirmed by the expe- 
rieoee of that time, again to the 
workli and had the satisfaction to per- 
eeive that it no longer met with the 
passionate rejection which had attended 
Its first promulgation, though it was 
as yet far fi*om receiving the general 
recognition subsequently accorded to 
It. In 1787, Lavater coniinuQicated 
it, hi its reformed shape, to Wienhold 
at Bremen. Gmelin, of Heiibronn, 
IsarMd it at Strasboargi and brought 

it info his natlte Suabii. Wolfart, of 
Berlin, made a journey to Switierland 
for the express purpose of having it at 
the lips of Mesmer himself, whom he 
found a venerable g^ey-headed man, 
leading a patriarchal life, held in great 
veneration by those around him, and 
possessing, even in the advanced years 
which he had then attained, so much 
magnetic energy, that be could pro** 
duoe magnetic effects by merely 
stretching tmt hb hand. Mesmer 
died at Morsburg, in the year 1816. 

The subsequent history of Mesme- 
rism is a history of steady proffress^ 
and development in various direo- 
ttons. That it has advanced mor^ in 
Germany than in any other country is^ 
perhaps, owing to the fact, that the 
Germans are more patient in making 
experiments, and more candid in ad« 
mitting the conclusions to which the 
results of them lead, than any other 
people. That England ]s# of all 
countries, that in which the study of 
Mesmerism has gained Ua$t ground, ia 
also no wholly inexplicable phenome- 
non« << Slow and Sure" are, aooord- 
ing to the Englishman's own boast, 
the grand characteristics of the &ng. 
lish mind. The boast is not a vain 
one t the English mind is ''slow," and 
it is " sure :" — very **slow" to move in 
any direction, and very "sure," as a 
general principle, that there lies so 
existing thing in any direction worth 
its moving for. Mesmerism is not the 
only thing, divine or human, in which 
the English taind is so very far^-so 
out of all sight-^in the rear of the 
general mind of Europe, as to seem 
to itself, in the touching simplicity 
which charaoteriaes it| to march in the 
▼an of all* 

Mesmerism, after all, cannot with 
any propriety be said 'to have as yet 
attained to the rank of a science* Its 
procedure is not silre : there is some* 
thing in it still of a shooting-at-ram 
dora, productive of an appearance of 
caprice or inconstancy in the results 
which leads theologians of a certain 
calibre — gentlemen who should have 
lived in the times of the witch-trials, 
(the rather as they would certainly 
have had nothing to fear from the 
keenest witch-finder) — to tell us that, 
if it be not mere *' human fraud for 
gain's sake," it is beyond all question, 
" Satanic agency." *< Magnetism," sajs 
Ennemoser of Munich, '< has but too 
eridently beeoi up to this timi'i more 

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in the hands of abuse than of right 
use ; and, instead of serving to its le- 
gitimate endf the healing of sickness. 
It has been too much a subject of cu- 
rious dilettantisms^ and of unseasona- 
ble, ilUunderstood, and therefore, for 
the most part, mischievous experi- 
ments." It is impossible not to sub- 
scribe to the truth of this. Magnet- 
ism is, as Hoffman aptly describes it, 
*'a dangerous edge-tool, in the hand of 
a child ;" and one cannot but wish to 
see the wholesome restrictions which 
the Prussian government has placed 
on the use of it generally adopted ; to 
see an agent so powerftd, so enig^a- 
ti<Md, and so difficult to guide, taken 
out of the hands of strolling lecturers, 
physicasters, and wonder-mongers, re- 
deemed from the unworthy service of 
affording an evening's entertainment 
to an audience totally unqualified to 
bring away from the spectacle one 
useful thought, and committed authori- 
tatively to the hands, we will not say 
merely, of the ^aduated physician, 
but of the phjrucian specially and ap- 
provedly quahfied to wield an instru- 
ment, of tne nature and use of which 
they who know most feel the most 
lensibly how little they know. The 
dread secrets of our being into which 
Mesmerism affords a far-off and un- 
certain glimpse, are not the stuff of 
which raree-shows should be made ; 
neither do coma, catalepsy and hysteria* 
yield the materials of quite so inno- 
cent an exhibition as tricks on cards, 
and '^the gun delunon." We have 
seen, in the case of Van Helmont, that 
some of the most remarkable of the 
effects of Mesmeric treatment mav, 
under certain circumstances, equally 
be produced by the use of narcotic 
poisons. What should we say to the 
invitation of some itinerant scientific 
showman, to come and see him, at 
half-a-orown a head, experimenting ta 
corpore vtZt ( to wit, on some young 

lady travelling with Urn in the 
city of philosophical soKgre-dauleur) 
with small doses of henbane, thorn- 
apple, and deadly nightshade? De^y 
worthy of consideration, as dictated 
by sound wisdom and true philanthro- 
py, is that twentp'fdnth conchuitm of 
the French commission of 1831, here 
^ subjoined : — ''Considered as a cause of 
certain physiological phenomena, or 
as a therapeutic remedy, magnetism 
ought to be allowed a place within the 
circle of the medical sciences ; and, 
consequently, physicians onhf should 
practise it, or superintend its use, as ia 
the case in the northern countries." 

M. Lafontaine, however, who visit* 
ed Eneland in 1841, and held amoer* 
saziom on animal magnetism in this 
city in the summer of the following 
Tear, certainlv merits better than to 
be ranked with the common herd of 
exhibitors and lecturers-errant to 
whom the fbr^roing observations are 
applicable. The Mesmeric ph^io- 
mena developed at his conoersaxiom, 
were indeed of a common-place and 
every-day character enough, rising in 
no instance above the point of simple 
sleep-waking — Kluge*syb«rf A degree of 
magnetic affection. But his visit, 
viewed in reference, to the results by 
which it has been followed, may be 
said to form an epoch in the history 
of Mesmerism in these countries. An 
impulse has been given to inqmry, 
public curiosity has been enffage^ in a 
d^pree which has attended uie laboura 
of no former preacher of the Mesme- 
rite doctrine among us.* The study 
of Mesmerism in the British islands, it 
may .be confidently stated, has made 
grreater progress within the last three 
years than it had done witlun the pre* 
ceding thirty. In Scotland, the new 
impetus has made itself most forcibly 
felt. The Scot is a more consequent 
thinker, and has an intellect less 
riveted to the material, than his 

* No doubt, the effect of M Lafontaine's demonstrations has been powerfully 
seconded by that of a remarkable sermon, preached on the occasion of that gentle- 
man's appearance at Liverpool, by the Rev. Hugh M*Neile, a popular minister of 
that town, and extensively circulated through the medium of what, with an equivo* 
cal sort of felicity, is designated the " Penny Pulpit," The very title of this ser- 
mon, Satanic Aaency and Mesmerism, is calculated to invest the subject, for a 
numerous class of minds, with a certain thrilling interest, or horrible fascination, 
sure to lead them to plunge into it ; while the sermon itself, should any one actually 
read it, cannot fail to allav any fears, which ma^r have presented themselves to per- 
sons of a timid or scrupulous turn, of there being something more than is quite 
** canny** at work in those mystic passes, in that spectral stare, which are followed 
by effects so bewildering, and like ** the stuff that dreams are made of." He that 

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MQtbeni neighboTir. The old Sax6n 
element is a iar more fundamental 
one, and exists in a much less modified 
form in the Scottish than in the Eng- 
tish nature; and, after Germany, 
there is perhaps no country more 
likely to afford to Mesmerism scope 
for an interesting development than 
Scotland. One learns, accordingly, 
with the less surprise, that <' there is 
DOW no community of the slightest 
importance in the north, which does 
not contain a numerous hody of be- 
lierers in the truths of Mesmerism.** 
Such is, at least, the intelligence im- 
parted, in a tone of ^tulation, by Mr. 
Lang, of Glasgow, in a little work, as 
interesting in its contents, as it is un« 
pretendiiig in its form, recently issued 
from the press ;* with some gleanings 
firom which these concluding pages, of 
a perhaps somewhat over-lengthy dis- 
sertation, shall be enliyened. 

A rapid sketch of the history of The- 
rapeutic magnetism, from Van Hel- 
montto Mr. Doye, occupies the first 
chapter. The second briefly notices some 
of the theories which haye oeen put forth 
by yarions writers, in explanation of its 
jmenomena, and concludes with the 
yery just remark, that ^'as we are 
almost daily receiving fresh knowledge 
on the subject, there need be no hurry 
in building up a theory. The phe- 
nomena of Mesmerism (observes Mr. 
Lai^) are in themselves true, whatever 
theory may ultimately be adopted, and 
probM>]y inquirers would, for the pre- 
sent, be most usefully employed in 
scnttiniaing and recording facts, and 
leave the rest to time." 

In his third chapter, which treats of 
the Mesmeric phenomena and states, 
Mr. Lang presents us with the '* con- 
dnsions" appended to the report of 
the French Commission of 1831, 
adoptmg, as he advertises us, the trans- 
lation of Mr. Golquhoun. This com- 
mission, appointed by the Rojral Aca- 
demy of Medicine at Paris, m 1826, 

but which had had a multipUoity of 
delays and hindrances to contend with, 
acknowledged, when it atleneth found 
utterance, the truth of Mesmerism 
(understanding thereby not the theory 
of Mesmer, but the existence of the 
agency to which he had called atten* 
tion)to the fullest extent; wherein, 
however, it had been already preceded 
by the Academy of Sciences at Berlin, 
as well as by an imperial commission 
in Russia. A few of the conclusions 
of the French commissioners are here 
presented to the reader :— • 

" 1. The contact of the thumbs or of 
the hands ; fHotions, or certain gestures 
which are made at a small distance from 
the body, and are called pasaeSf are the 
means employed to place ourselves in 
magnetic connection, or, in other words, 
to transmit the magnetic influence to 
the patient. 

**2. The means which are external 
and visible, are not always necessary, 
since, on many occasions, the will, the 
fixed look, have been found sufficient to 
produce the magnetic phenomena, even 
without the knowledge of the patient. 

**7' Sometimes, craring the process 
of mas:netising, there are manifested 
insignificant and evanescent effects, 
which cannot be attributed to magne- 
tism alone ; such as a slight degree of 
oppression, of heat or of cold, and some 
other nervous phenomena, which can be 
explained without the intervention of a 
particular agent, upon the principle of 
hope or of fear, prejudice, and the 
novelty of the treatment, the ennui 
produced by the monotony of the ves- 
tures, the silence and repose in which 
the experiments are made ; finaDy, by 
the imagmation, which has so mucui in* 
fluence on some minds and on certain 

** 8. A certain number of the effects 
observed, appeared to us to depend upon 
magnetism alone, and were never pro« 
duced without its application. These 
are well established physiological and 
therapeutic phenomena. 

"10. The existence of an uniform 
character, to enable us to recognize, in 

could continue to suspect either Mesmerists or their opponents of any thing verging 
on conjuration, after reading the sermon of the minister of St. June's, were, one 
should fear, reason-proof. It is difficult to think that the Jesuit Robert himself, 
£d be fiye in our nineteenth century, and — feeling curious about our smaller theo- 
logical currency— take in the Penny Pulpit, could have read " Nos. 599— flOO " of 
that publioation, without feeling somewhat ashamed of his doctrine — ^without con- 
fessing that he had not believed it possible to present it under an aspect of such 
. IwBerous intenability, and that Van Hehnont might, very safely, have left it to be 
deaU with bv Mr. M*NeUe. 

* Bfeamensm; its history, phenomena, and practice: with reports of cases 
developed in Scotland. Fraser & Co. Edmborgh ; Curry & Co. I>ublin._1843. 

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JUstma nim . 


eyerj ease, the reality of the eUte of 
somnambuliBiD, has not been esta- 

" 13. Sleep, produced with more or 
less promptitaae. is a real, but not a 
constant effect of magnetism. 

*' 14. We hold it as demonstrated, 
that it has been produced in circum- 
stances in which the persons magnetised 
eonld not see, or were ignorant of the 
means employed to occasion it. 

'* 15. When a person has once been 
9iade to fall into the magnetic sleep, it 
is not always necessary to have recourse 
to contact, in order to magnetise him 
anew. The look of the roagnetiser, 
his volition alone, possess the same in- 
fluence. He can not only act upon the 
magnetised person, but eren place him 
in a complete state of somnambulism, 
and bring him out of it, without his 
knowledge, out of his sight, at a certain 
distance, and with doors intervenine. 

" 16. d. The greater number of the 
somnambulists whom we have seen, 
were completely insensible. We might 
tickle their feet, their nostrils, and the 
angle of the eyes, with a feather — we 
might pinch their skin, so as to leave a 
mark, prick them with pins under the 
nails, &c., without producing any 
pain, without even their perceiving 
It. Finally, we saw one who was insen- 
aible to one of the most painful opera- 
tions in surgery, and who did not mani- 
fest the sligntest emotioQ in her 
countenance, her pulse, or her respi- 

*' 17* Magnetism is as intense, and as 
apeedil;^ felt, at a distance of six feet, 
as of six inches ; and the phenomena 
developed are the same in both cases, 

" 18. The action at a distance does 
not appear capable of being exerted 
with success, excepting upon individuals 
who have been already magnetised. 

" 24. We have seen two somnambu- 
lists who distinguished, with their eyes 
closed, the ol^ects which were placed 
before them ; they mentioned the colour 
and the value of cards, without 
touching them ; they read the words 
traced with the hand, as also some lines 
of books opened at raudpin. This phe- 

Somenon took place even when the eye* 
ds were kept exactly closed with the 

" 25. In two somnambulists we found 
the faculty of foreseeing the acts of the 
organism more or less remote, more or 
less complicated. One of them an- 
nounced repeatedly, several months pre- 
viously, the day, the hour, the minute 
of the acpess, aqd of the return of 
epileptie fits, ^he other announced the 
period of his 4ure. Their pre-visions 
were realised with remarkaole exact- 
ness. They appeared to us to apply 
only to acts or injuries of their orgaoism. 

<<91 We foind only a singk 
nambulist who pointed out the symptena 
of the diseases of three persons with 
whom she was placed in magnetic con- 
nection. We had, however, made ex- 
periments upon a considerable number. 

**28. Some of the magnetised patients 
felt no benefit from the treatment; 
ethers experienced a more or less deci- 
ded relief, — ^vis. one, the suspension of 
habitual pains ; another, the return of 
his strength i a third, the retardatUm, 
for several months, of his epileptic fits ; 
and a fourth, tbo complete cure of a 
serious paralysis of long standing 

" 30. Your committee have not been 
able to verify — ^because thev had no op- 
portunity of doing so — otaer faeuHles 
which the raagnetisers had annooneed as 
existing in somnambulists ; but thoy 
have communicated in theur report, faots 
of sufficient importance to enlitle them 
to think that the academy ought to en* 
courage the investigations into the sub- 
ject or animal magnetism, as a very 
curious branch of psychology and natu- 
ral history." 

Names, as distinguished as any that 
the medical profession in France has 
to boast, are appended to the report 
of which the forgoing are some of 
the conclusions. It is curious that^ 
while we are so often assured that 
French physical science repudiated 
Mesmerism as long ago as 17B4, we 
are generally left to find out for our- 
selves that she took it into favour again 
in 1831. But the probability is, that 
the loudest of our anti-magnetie po- 
lemists are possessed of much the 
same degree of acquuntanee with the 
history as with the doctrine and use 
of the object of their denunciationa^ 

The Mesmeric states are given by 
Mr. Lang, after Kluge, who has enu- 
merated them as:.r-l* the state of 
waking — sense open; 2. half-sleep, 
or imperfect crisis^ense closine ; 

3. magnetic sleep — sense dosed ; 

4. somnambulism, or perfect crisis-^ 
sense opening Inwardly ; 5. self-intui- 
tion, or clairvoyance — sense open in- 
wardly ; 6. universal lucidity, or eoi 
Stacy, also called disorganization — a 
state of rare occurrence, and of which 
one may doubt whether It be ever pro- 
duced by the simple operation of mag- 
netic influences; or whether other 
causes, wholly independent of these^ 
and only accidentally acting inooaoert 
with them, constitute the true ground 
of it. It is not so mueh a higner de- 
gree of magnetic ailhction^ aa a state 
sui generis, which may present ittelf is 

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subjects not Mesmerisedi althotigh a 
condition of Mesmeric lucidity ofTers 
peculiar facilities for its development 

Mr. Dove reckons fdne stages of 
Mesmeric affection, as follows : 1. con- 
templative abstraction ; 2. ordinary 
vigil; 8. ordinary reverie; 4. ordinanr 
dreaming ; 5, oblirious sleep (Kloge^ 
magnetic sleep ; 6. lucid dreaming; 7. 
lucid reverie ; 8. Incid vigil ; 9. devo- 
tional ecstacT. 

This division is essentially the tame 
as Kluge*8» and it may be doubted 
whether the alteration in the form is 
for the better. « Devotional ecstacy " 
belongs, still more emphatically than 
the '< universal lucidity^ of Kluge> to 
an essentially higher order of pheno- 
mena, which may open itself sponta- 
neously to the Mesmeric patient, but 
into which no "passes," nor " volition 
in fiuth" of the Mesmerite physioiaa 
break a forcible way. 

In a chapter on the application of 
Mesmerism to medical science, Mr. 
Laoff placet before us the meUmeholy 
ud humiliating record of the recep* 
tion whidi physical truth, in most of 
ber oDotmrs and discoveries of herself 
to men, has met with at the hands of 
ber chosen priests. Galileo greeted 
with the epitnets of "plagiarist ! liar 1 
impostor 1 neretlc !*' Iiarvey rewarded 
for hit great dlsoovery with *' general 
ridicule and abuse, and a great dimi- 
imtion of his practice." Sydenham 
stigmatised as " a quack and a mur- 
derer." Ambrose Par§, who first sub- 
stituted the ligature for boilinff pitch 
in amputations, "hooted and howled 
down by the faculty of phytic, who 
ndipulea tho idea of hanging human 
life upon a thread, when boilmg pitch 
had stood the tett of centnriet." Ths 
prescribing of antimony made penal by 
an act of a French parlemwnt, patted 
at the instance of a French college of 
m edi ci n e . Jetnit't bark promptly re- 
jected bv Protettaot England, as a 
phase of the "mvstery of iniquity." 
Doctor Groeovelt " eommitted to 
Newgate, by warrant of the president 
of the College of Physiciant, tor disco- 
veering the curative power of cantha* 
rides in dropsy.*' Inoculation de- 
nounced by the medical facultv at a 
morderout folly ; and by the theplo* 
gical, as an impiout defiMce of Previa 
dence ; and the commonpeople taught 
to hoot at Lady Mary Wortley Mon- 

tagne, for introducing it. Vaccination 
ridiculed by the learned profession of 
medicine, and discovered by popular 
preachers of that day to be Antichrbt. 
The Newtonian philosophy, encounter- 
ing the reception which Doctor Chal- 
mers, in his sonorous Tron- Church-bell 
style has so chronicled ; " authority 
scowled upon it, and tsiste was dis- 
gusted by it, and fashion was ashamed 
of it" The project of lighting our 
cities with gas, declared by WoUaston 
as insane a one as would be the 
attempt " to light London with a slice 
from the moon." Atlantic steam navi- 
gation demonstrated \^ Dr. Lardner 
to be impossible. Percussion and 
auscultation treated bv the doctors with 
ridicule,** with " absolute indigna- 
tion," with " silent contempt,*' pro- 
nounced, in grave medical lecture, 
" nonsense, or worse," and dbmissed, 
one hoped, for ever, with the character 
of being "just the thing for Elliotson 
to rave about !"— the said Elliotson, for 
years after he published his work on 
prussic add, " not only ill-spoken-of, 
for recommending what was useless, 
but condemned tor usine dangerous 
poisons." These cases Tand they might 
be reinforced with a host of similar 
ones) would almott justify the suspi- 
cion, that bigotry b not the exclusive 
chanusteristic of ome of the " learned 
professions," that there exbts a feel- 
ing which we might name " odium 
eotUgiaU" of whiim the much-decried 
odaim theologicum U only a modifica- 
tion} tiittt medical men, as a class, 
are not one whit less narrow than 
priettt I are, with far lett excuse, 
(inasmuch as they do not claim for 
tiieir system the authority of a divine 
revelation,) quite at ready as these to 
reject, as bearing in its very novelty 
evidence of its heretical character, 
every thing new in therapeutic doctrine 
or praotioe^-eTery thing implying that 
the exbting tt«te of their science still 
leaves room for further development, 
ttill adniitt a possibility of progress— i 
perhaps of correction. 

The eases reported by Mr. Lang 
are> perhaps, as interesting as any that 
have as. yet presented themselves in 
these countries, but they are too long 
to be transferred to these pages : that 
of ihe "Mesmeriser Mesmerised" b 
extremely pleasant. The little volume 
will well repay an aftentive perusal. 

Digitized by LjOOQ IC 

53 To England. [U 


My fatherland ! my fatherland ! I pine to hear once more 
The dashing of the ocean-spray against thy rocky shore ; 
To feel the fresh and cooling hreeze bring health upon its wii^. 
And press the emerald turf agun where many a daisy springs. 

My fatherland ! my fatherland 1 how often in my dreams 
The scenes I lov*d in youth return — thy wooded hills, thy streams^ 
The chalky cliffs that towering rise above the sandy shore^ 
The beacon light to warn the ship where furious breakers roar. 

My fatherland I my fatherland I ah I how can I forget 
The places where, a merry band, so often we have met ; 
When shouts of laughter told of hearts unconscious of a care. 
And free from all the sorrow that their after-years must bear. 

My fatherland ! my fatherland ! where are those children now, 
With eyes of light, and shining hair that wav'd o'er each fair brow ? 
Where are the little feet that once so lightly bounded on. 
Unwearied, all the livelong day, that aye too soon was gone ? 

My fatherland ! my fatherland ! there's one of that bright band 
An exile pining to behold once more thy sea-girt land ; 
AVith yearning heart, and saddened brow, and drooping, wasted form. 
That long hath bowed beneath the weight of many a pelting storm. 

My fatherland I my fatherland ! another of that group 
Hath left thy shore to hearken to the Indian's wild war-whoop ; 
Hath pierced the forest's gloom, and heard the thund'ring waterfall. 
And watch'd the starts calm light shine down between the pine-trees tall. 

My fatherland I my fatherland 1 another laughing boy. 
With bright blue eyes, and dauntless heart, all full of tameless joy. 
Hath made the sea his home, and dares the ocean's wildest rage. 
And happiest feels when wind and waves their wildest conflict wage. 

My fatherland I my fatherland I all, all dispersed are they. 

And ne'er perchance may see the home where pass'd their childhood gay. 

But unforgot that happy home through each vicissitude. 

So deeply are their hearts with pleasant memories imbued. 

My fatherland ! my fatherland I oh ! should they ever meet. 
Once more upon thy verdant plains, and hold communion sweet. 
Though sadly chang'd each form and face, and chill'd each time-worn heart. 
From such deep happiness as this they ne*er again could part. 

My fatherland ! my fatherland I my thoughts are all of thee, 

And of the fondly lov'd ones whom I never more may see ; 

I cannot feel I have a home within this torrid clime. 

Despite the palm-trees' waving grace, and fragrant blossom'd lime. 

My fatherland ! my fatherland ! there's not a priceless gem 
That sparkles in an Eastern monarch's glitt'ring diadem. 
Would tempt me to foreffo the hope that I may press once more 
Thy mossy turf, and shaay lanes, and ocean-girded shore. 

At A. L. 

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.Arrah NeUs or, Times of Old. 



BT O. P. B. JAVKSi BtO. 

AnthflT of **Dtfii]e7/* **BiclioUen,** ftc ftOi 


At the door of Captain Barecolt's 
room, Nancy put the candle in his hand, 
and made him a low courtesj, which 
might be partly in answer to yarious 
elTil speeches which the worthy and 
respectable gentleman had addressed 
to her as they went np stairs, partly as 
a hint that she did not intend to go 
any further in his company ; for to say 
the truth, the nose of the tall captain 
was not at all prepossessing in Nancy's 

"I want to speak de leetle word 
wid jon, my dear," sud Captain Bare- 
colt, taking the candle. 

But the girl, however, only dropped 
him another courtesy, replying — 

J* Well, sir, what is it? Pray, be 
quick, for missis will want me." 

*^ Tell me, my deiu-," said Barecolt, 
lowering his voice, ''what be dat gen- 
tleman dat I see come in just now ? 
he who ware what you call teepsy ?" 

"Oh, he ifl a lodger, sir," replied 
Nancy, turning round to go away. 

** Stop, stop,*' said Barecolt, " an- 
swer me de other leetle word. Have 
he got one young lady wid him ?" 
*' Yes sir — no more," replied Nancy. 
" And in dis house ?" asked Cap- 
tain Barecolt. 

** Yes, sir," rejoined the girl again ; 
"just in there; — he locks the door 
upon her, the old vermin," she added, 
not at all approving such an abridg- 
ment of female liberty, and looking 
upon Mr. Dry as but httle better than 
a Turk in the garb of a Calvinist. 

"Ah, he be de monstrous big 
rogue,** replied Barecolt. •* I tought 
I see him before ; I know him, Nancee, 
I know him well for one extravagant 
great tief." 

" He is not very extravagant here," 
nswered the maid ; " but I must ^o, 
sir, upon my word;" and, whisking 
romsd, she descended the sturs, at the 
foot of which her mistress called her 
into the little parlour, and inquired 
what that man had been saying to her. 
" Oh, he was aaking about the gen- 

tleman in the chamberlain, ma'am,** 
was Nancy's reply ; ** and he says he 
is an extravagant big thief — that he 
has seen him before, and knows him." 
Mrs. White looked at Mr. O'Don- 
nell, and Mr. O'Donnell at Mrs. 
White, and then the landlady mur- 
mured — "He is not far wrong, I 
fancy," to which Mr. G'DonneU as- 
sented by a nod. 

In the mean while Captain Bare- 
colt entered his bed-chamber, set down 
the candle, and stretched his long 
limbs upon a chair, after which he 
fell into a fit of thought, not gloomy 
but profound. He was a man who 
loved adventures, as the reader is 
aware, and he saw a wonderful provi- 
sion of them before him, in which he 
hoped and expected to have an oppor- 
tunity of developing many of those 
vast and important qualities which he 
attributed to himself— wit, courage, 
cunning, presence of mind, dexterity 
of action, together with his wonderful 
powers of strategy, were all likely to 
have full means of displaying them- 
selves in the two-fold enterprbe of de- 
liverii^ Arrah Neil from the hands of 
Mr. Dry of Longsoaken, and Lord 
Beverly from the clutches of Sir John 
Hotham. He was well contented 
with what he had done abready. To 
have cheated a ^vernor of Hull, to 
have obtained his liberty in five mi- 
nutes, to have passed for a French- 
man, to have cast off the companion- 
ship of the embarrassing Mr. Jenkins, 
were feats of no light merit in his eyes ; 
and he now proposed to go on, step 
by step, till he had reached the climax 
of accomplishment ; first using art, 
then daring, and crowning the whole 
by some brilliant display of courage, 
which would immortalise him in the 
eyes of the royalist party. 

After he had thus continued to 
think for about a quarter of an hour, 
and had arrived at the point of doubt- 
ing whether he was in fact Julius 
Csesar or Alexander the Great, with 

Digitized by LjOOQ IC 

AmJk NiM: ar^ Timei of OU. 


some sligbt suspicion that he might he 
neither, but Henry IV. of France in- 
stead, he opened the door quietly, and 
without taking the candle^ advanced 
to the head of the stairs, where, bend- 
ing down his head, he listened fbr a 
moment. There was * dull heavy 
sound of people talking, however ; and 
a man's voice was heard, though the 
words he used could not be distin* 

" Ay, that d d fellow is there 

still," murmured Ci^tain Barecolt; 
''if he does not go soon, I'll walk 
down and cut his throat ;" but pust as 
he was turning to go back to his own 
room, he heard the door of the little 
parlour — which as it closed with a 
pulley and a weight, announced its 
movements by a prodigious rattle — 
give indications of its being openedj 
and the voice of Mr. 0*Donnell could 
be distinguished, as be marched out. 


'* The first thing to be done, how- 
ever, Mrs. White, is to get her out of 
this man's hands." 

Captain Barecolt waited till the 
Irishman's footsteps sounded no longer 
in the hall, and then walking down 
stairs, proceeded straight into the little 
parlour, and, much to the astonbh- 
ment of Mrs. White, seated himself 
before her, saying in good plain Eng- 

" I think so too, Mrs. White." 

" Lord, sir, what do you mean ?" 
asked the worthy landlady* 

*' 1 mean, 'the first thing is to get her 
out of this man's hands,' Mrs. White ] 
so now let rai have some supper, and 
I will tell you all about it." 

" Dear me, sir I— Why this is very 
funny," replied the landlady, with an 
agitated smoothing of the table-cloth, 
and a tremulous arranging of the jugs 
and plates ; " I didn't know that any 
one heard what the gentleman said." 

" But I did though, Mrs. White," 
replied Barecolt; ''loud words wUI 
always catch long ears." 

" Why, lord, sir, you speak as good 
English as I do,*' said Mrs. White. 

" To be sure I do," answered Bare- 
colt ; '< I should be a fool if I didn't. 
But now, my good lady, tell me if I 
can trust you ; for although my own 
life is a thing that I care nothing 
about, and is risked every day wherever 
it can be risked by shot and steel. In 
the breach and in the field, there is 

much more to be perilled by any things 
like rashness, than such a trifle as 
that. There's this young lady's safety 
and liberty, and I can tell you, that 
there are a great many very high peo- 
ple, who would give no light reward 
to those who wul set her free from 
this base caitiff who has got her." 

" Dear me," cried Mrs. White, " I 
wish I had known that before, £ar hera 
have we been talking of noUiinff alsa 
for the last hour, Mr. O'DonneU and 
I, Do you know who she is, sir 7" 

" I know more than I choose to nj^ 
Mrs. White," replied Barecolt, wba 
had made it the nrst principle of hia 
life, from soft childhood to rubicuiid 
maturity, never to confess ignoranca 
of any thing, and who had frttiinaitlT 
made a significant nod or a wise look 
pass for a whole volume of informa- 
tion ; " but what I ask you is, oan I 
trust you, Mrs. White ?*-can I trust 
to your seal, fideli^, and discretion ? 
as the Duke of Montmorenoi asked 
me, when he was about to take arms 
for the deliverance of France from the 
tyranny of Richelieu. I made him a 
low bow, Mrs. White, laid my hand 
upon my heart, and said* ' Perfectly, 
monseigneur i* and if be had taken mj 
advice, he would have now bad a hea4 
upon his shoulders." 

"Lord have mercy." exclaimed Mrs. 
White, overpowered with the grand 
and tragic ideas which her strange 
g^est presented to her imagination* 
" Oh, dear me, yes, sir ; you can tvust 
to me perfectly, I assure you. I 
would risk my house and evetj thii^| 
rather than not set the poor ciear flA 
free from that nasty old puritanioal 
creature. Why, this was the very 
first house she came to after she came 
over from Ireland, though Mr. O'Don* 
nell says they went to Holland first to 
escape suspicion, Ay« and here her 
poor mother died." 

"Indeed," said Captain Barecolt, 
drinking in all the tidings that he 
heard, " I did not know that this was 
the house, Mrs. White. However I mo 
flad to hear it, a very good house 
it is and capital wine. You must 
know then, Mrs. White, since I oan 
trust you frilly, that I came into Hull 
for the express purpose of setting this 
young lady free, and restorins her to 
her friends. Lord Walton and his sis* 
ter," The worthy captain, as the 
reader will perceive, was ne?er at a 

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Afrah IM9 or, Time$ qf Old. 


lost Ibr alby and iadetd the habit of 
telihig the exact truth had been so 
long abaodonedy if ererit was pos« 
aeeaed, that the worthy professor of 
the 8w«ird might have found no slight 
diffioiilty in avoiding every shade of 
imisehood which his fertile imagination 
was eontinually offering him to embel- 
lish his various narratives withal* 
He had no particular objeet in de- 
ceiving Mrs. White; in regard to the 
real niode# manner^ and object* of his 
Tisit to Hull } but it was bis general 
praetiee to begin by telling the lie 
first* and leaving the truth as a sort 
of strong eorps of reserve to fall 
back upon in ease of need, 

** Dear me, sir/' wied Mrs. White» 
** why Mr. Jenkins told me that you 
were a Frenchman, who had come 
o^mr to serve our poor good king 
against these parliamentary folks, that 
70a had been taken prisoner, and now 
offer to serve the parliament" 

<« All a lie, all a lie, Mrs. White,** 
replied Captain Barecolt,'^it is won- 
derftil what lies people will tell when 
it is quite as easy to speak the truth. 
However, in saying I was a French- 
taao^ he knew no better, poor silly 
man, fo^ I pretended to be so in order 
to earry on my schemes the better. 
But as I see vou are true to the roy^ 
cause,. I will let you know that I am 
an officer in the king's service, and 
have no intention whatever of being 
any tlung else. Neither must yon 
suppose, Mrs. White, that I oome 
here as a spy, for although I hold 
4StiMtf upon certain occasions, the office 
of spy may beoome honourable, yet it 
is not one that I would willingly fill.*. 
so now, Mrs. White, as I said before, 
let me have sense supper, and then 
tell me what is to be done for the de- 
Uveranee of this young lady ?" 

Captain Barecolt had risen wonder- 
Ibllv m the estimation of Mrs. White 
witnin the last five minutes ; and, sueh 
m the eibet of ouv mental affeetions 
vpoA our oovporeal faoulties, that she 
hoguk to think him by no means so 
Q^ a man as he had at first appeared, 
hk nose redueed itself into very tole- 
rable and seemly proportions in her 
cffes, the redness thereof became no- 
thing more than a pleasant glow, and 
his tall figure and somewhat long un- 
gainly Hmbs, acquired an air of dig- 
ai^ and oeqmMitid wUch Mrs, White 

Bustling about then she prepared 
to supply him with the comfortable 
things of this life with great good* 
will, and was struck with considerable 
admiration at the vigour and pertina- 
eity with which he assailed the viands 
placed before him. She was obliged 
mdeed to call to Nancy to bring a fresh 
supply. But Captain Barecolt made 
a Significant siffn by laying his finger 
on the side of his nose, which organ 
might be considered indeed as a 
sort of telegraph erected by nature 
with a view to such signals ; and he 
afterwards reminded her, in a low 
voice, that his incognito must be kept 
up with all others but herself. 

'* You are the only confidant I shall 
make in the town of Hull," he ad- 
ded ; '' one confederate is quite suffix 
cient for a man of genius, and to 
every body else I am de same Captabe 
Jersval dat eame over from France to 
help de king, but be now villing to 
help de parliament." 

*' Lawk, sir, how well you do it," 
cried the landlady ; ** but I think you 
are very right not to tell any one but 
me, for they are a sad prying, gossip- 
ing^ race in the town of Hull, and you 
might soon have your secret blown all 
over the place. But as to poor Miss 
Arrah, sir, I really do not know what 
is to be done. I can see very well 
that Mr. O'Donnell knows more about 
her than he chooses to say, and I can 
find that it was through him that the 
poor lady, her mother, held her com- 
munications with Ireland. He wonH 
tell me who she is though, or what was 
her father's name, orher mother's either, 
though I tried to pump him as hard 
as I could. Perhaps you, sir, may be 
able to tell me ?" 

** There Is such a thing as discre- 
tion, Mrs. White," said Captain Bare- 
colt with a sagacious air i but suspect- 
ing that Mrs. White had some doubts 
regarding him and his knowledge of 
'Arrah, and was only trying to ascer- 
tain how far his information respecting 
her reallv extended, he added, ^ I 
suppose the young lady is in bed by 
this time ; but I diould be glad, Mrs. 
White, if you would take the first 
opportunity of telling her that one of 
the gentlemen who accompanied Lord 
Walton from Bishop's Merton, is now 
in Hull, and will not quit the place 
without setting her free." 

^Oh, bleu you, sbr, I daresay she 

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Arrak Neil: or, Tkut vf Old. 


18 not in bed/' answered Mrs. White^ 
<^and if she be, I should not mind wak- 
ing her to tell her such good news as 
that — ril go directly," she continued, 
shaking her bunch of keys signifi- 
cantly. " The old hunx locks the 
door and takes away the key, and then 
gets as drunk as a beast, so that she 
might starve for that matter ; but I 
can always get in notwithstanding." 

"Ay, ay," answered Bareoolt, " a 
landlady is nothing without her pass- 
key, so run and make use of it, there's 
a dear woman ; and if the young lady's 
up, I will go and see her now ; if she 
is not, it must be to-morrow morn- 

Mrs. White was absent for about 
five minutes, during which time Cap- 
tain Barecolt continued his attack 
upon the cold beef, so that by the time 
the worthy landlady returned, the vast 
sirloin looked as if a mammoth had 
been feeding on it. 

**0h, dear, sir," cried Mrs. White, 
"she is so glad to hear that you are 
here 1 and she would fain get up and 
go away with you this very night ; but 
I told her that couldn't be, for the 
gates are closed and locked." 

" Locks are nothing to me, Mrs. 
White," replied the CaiptBm, with a 
sublime look, ^'and gates disappear be- 
fore my hand as if they were made of 
pasteboard. Did I not, with a single pe- 

tard blow, open the Porte Nantoua 
of Aneenis, whidi wogfaed three tons 
weight, and took two men to move it 
on its hinges?" 

" Lord ha' mercy, sir/* exclaimed 
Mrs. White, " why yon are as bad as 

'^A great deal worse," replied the 
Captain ; " but however, I could not 
go to-night, for there's oth^ business 
to be done first." 

"Oh, ay, yes, sir," she said, "to g^ 
the papers, for I do not know whether 
you are aware that that old puritani- 
cal wretch has got all the papers and 
things out of poor Sargeant Neil's 
cottage. At least we think so, and I 
don't doubt in the least that all about 
poor Miss Arrah is to be found 

" Nor reither/' answered Barecolt, 
" nor I either, Mrs. White — ^but can 
I see the young lady to-night, or must 
I wait for to-morrow?" 

" She will be up ^ a few minutes, 
sir," answered the worthy landlady. 
" She would not hear of waiting, 
though I told her I could easily get 
the old man out of the way to-mor- 
row, bv sending him a wild goose 
chase after Hugh O'Donnell." 

" Well then," said Barecolt, "}roaffo 
and see when she is ready, and, in the 
mean time, I'll finish my supper." 

CHAPTEA xvni. 

" Come, sir, you must get up,** said 
an officer of the garrison, standing 
beside the Earl of Beverley, to whom 
we must now return, as he lay on the 
floor of the little cabin affecting to be 
still suffering from sickness. " You 
must get up and come with me, for 
we've got a lodging prepared for you 
hard by here." 

The earl pretended scarcely to un- 
derstand him, and made some answer 
in broken English, which, though it 
was not quite so well assumed as the 
jargon of Captain Barecolt, was sufiS- 
ciently like the language of a foreigner 
to keep up the character he had taken 
upon himself. 

*' Come, come, you must get up," 
reiterated the officer, taldi^ him by 
the arm ; and slowly, and apparently 
feebly, the earl arose and suffered the 
other to lead him upon deck. It was 

by this time dark, but several persons 
with lanterns in their hands were WMt- 
ing at the top of the hatchway; and 
g^uurded and lighted by them, the earl 
was led firom the vessel into the town, 
and thence to a small building near 
the city wall, pierced for musketry, 
and having a little platform at the top- 
on which was mounted a single can- 
non. On the side next to the town 
appeared a door and three windows, 
and before the block-house, as it was 
termed, a sentinel was already march- 
ing up and down, in expectation of 
the arrival of the prisoner; but it was 
with some difficulty that the door was 
opened to give entrance to the party 
which now approached. The aspect 
of the place to which the earl was to 
be consigned, was certainlv not very 
inviting, especially seen by the light of 
lanterns in a dark night; and the inner 

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Arrak Neil: or, Timei (f Old. 


room to which the ^i^iiard led him 
affiMrded but little means of reodering 
himBelf comfortable within those damp 
and narrow walls. A bed was there^ 
a table, and a chair, bat nothing else ; 
and Lord BeYerley, still muntaining 
hb character, made various exclama- 
tions in French npon the treatment to 
which the people of Hall thought fit 
to salject an officer and a gentleman. 
^You shall have some meat and 
beer presently," replied the officer, 
who understood a few words of the 
language the prisoner spoke, ** but as to 
a foe, mounseer, that you can't have, 
because there is no fire-place you see." 
The earl shruj;ged his shoulders 
with a look of discontent, but pre- 
pared to m^ke the best of his situation ; 
and as soon at the meat and beer, 
which they had promised, was brought, 
the key turned m the lock, and be was 
left alone, he sat down by the light 
of ibe lantern with which they had 
profided him« to meditate over his 
present condition and his future plans, 
with the peculiar turn of mind which 
we ha? e attempted to depict in some 
of the preceding pages. 
^^ ^This is not a pleasant consum- 
in^Btn^*' he said to himself, «' either 
ttf>l^;iads the king's serrice, or my 
jybty. "^owever, out of the cloud 
^odmes ]%htning, from the depths 
of ^digilt bursts forth the sun, all 
-Inright thiuffs are preceded by dark- 
ness, and the shadow that is upon me 
mi^ give place to light. Even here, 
perhi^ I may be enabled to do more 
ibr the cause I have undertaken than 
if 1 had reached France. It must be 
^ied at all events. There is nothing 
like boldness, though one cannot well 
be bold within these walls," and he 
^laooedhis eyes over the narrow space 
m which he was confined, thinking 
with a somewhat sad smile, that there 
was but little room for the exercise of 
any of those energies which may be 
called tiie Ufa of life. 

''It is a sad thing imprisonment," 
be thoofffat. «' Here the active being 
^ dead, and it is but the clay that 
lives. V«n every great design, fruit- 
less every intention and every effort, 
i^e all speculation, empty every aspi^ 
ration here I Cut off from all objects 
on which to exercise the powers of 
iBind or body, the patriot and the 
tndtor, the philosoi^er and the fool 
are efoal^No^" he oontinned after 

a moment's pause, ** No, not so I— 
Truth and honour are happiness even 
in a dungeon, and the grasp of intel- 
lect and imagination can reach beyond 
these walls, and bring within the nar- 
row limits of the prison materials to 
build mighty fabrics that the power 
of tyrants or enemies cannot over- 
throw. Did not Galileo leave upon 
the stones that surrounded him bright 
traces of the immortal spirit? Did 
he not in the cold cell wander by the 
powers of mind through all the glo- 
rious works of the Almighty, and tri- 
umph, even in chains, over the impo- 
tent malice of mankind? So may I 
too ; but my first consideration (must 
be of things more immediate. HoW 
shall I deal with this man Hotham ? 
I do not think he would know me dis- 
guised as I am now — shall I attempt 
still to pass for a Frenchman? If I 
do, perhaps I doom myself to long im- 
prisonment — I wonder where my com- 
panion can be, and Ashburnham ! 'Tis 
strange they are not placed in the same 
prison with myself. Pray heaven they 
have fared better, for though men say 
the more the merrier, yet I could not 
much wish any one to share such a 
lodging as this. I hope and trust that 
fellow Barecolt will put a guard upon 
his tongue. Well said the Hebrew 
king that it was an unruly member, 
and never did I know head in which 
it was less easily governed. He would 
not betray me, I do believe, but yet 
in his babble he may do more mischief 
than a less faithful man. Well, things 
must take their course. I cannot rule 
them, and I may as well supply the 
body's wants since they have afforded 
me the means." 

Thus thinking, he drew his chair to 
the table, and took some of the provi- 
sions which had been brought him, 
after which he again fell into a deep 
fit of thought, and then starting up, 
exclaimed cdoud — ''There is no use 
in calculating in such circumstances 
as these. None can tell what the next 
minute will bring forth, and the only 
plan is, to be prepared to take advan- 
tage of whatever may happen, for cir- 
cumstances must be hard indeed that 
will not permit a wise and quick-witted 
man to abate their evil, or to augment 
their good. So I will even go sleep 
as soon as I can ; but methinks the 
moon is rising," and, approaching the 
window, which was strongly barred^ 

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Artah NM: of, Tim$iqfOU* 


b« looked out for a fow minutosy at the 
orb of night roM red and large through 
the dull and heavj air of Hull. 

*' Where is sweet Annie Walton 
now/' he thought, ''and whither is 
her dear bright mind wandering. Per* 
hape she is even now looking at the 
planet, and thinking of him who she 
believes far away. Yes, surely she 
will think of me. God*8 blessing on 
her sweet heart, and may she soon 
know brighter days again, for these 
are sad ones« However, it is some 
consolation to know that she is un* 
aware of this misadventure. Well, I 
will go and try to sleep." 

He then, after offering his prayers 
to God — for he was not one to forget 
such homage — cast himself down upon 
the bed without taking off his clothes, 
and in a few minutes was sound asleep. 
During the two preceding davs he had 
imdergone much fiuigue, and had not 
closed an eye for eight and forty bonrs» 
so that at first lus slumber was as 
IMTofbund as that of a peasant; but 
towards morning, imagination re-as- 
serted her power, and took possession 
of his senses even in sleep. 

He fancied that he was m Italy again, 
and that Charles Walton, looking as he 
bad done in early youth, was walking 
beside him, along a terrace, where 
cypresses and urns of sculptured stone 
flanked the broad gravel-walk which 
overhung a steep precipice. What 
possessed him he knew not, but it 
seemed as if some demon kept whis* 
pering in his ear, to dare his loved 
companion to leap down ; and though 
reluctant, he did so, knowing all the 
while that if bis friend attempted it, 
he would infallibly perish. " Charles," 
he said, in the wild perversity of the 
dreaming brain^ *' dare you stand with 
me on the top of that low wall and 
jump down into the dell below." 

" Whatever you do, I will do, Fran- 
eis," the young nobleman seemed to 
reply, and without waiting for further 
discussion, they both approached the 
edge, mounted the low wall, and then 
leaped off together. The earl's brain 
seemed to turn as he fell, and every 
thing reeled before his diszy sight, 'till 
at leng^ he suddenlv found himself 
upon his feet at the bottom unhurt, 
and, instead of his friend, Annie Wal- 
ton standing beside him, in deep mourn- 
ing, inquiring, " How eould you be 
.|M> raib, Franeis?" 

Before he oould T9p\j be woke^ 
and gaiing wildly rotind himt saw 
the sunshine of the early morning 
streaming through the window, aad 
cheering even the gloomy a^wot of 
the prison* 

** This is a strange dream,*' he 
thought, seatine himself upon the edge 
of the bed, and leaning hu head upon 
bis hands ; " a mighty strange dream, 
indeed 1 Havel really tempt^Charies 
Walton to take such a dangerous 
leap, in persuading him to dfaw the 
sword for his king? Noi ool He 
could not avoid it— he was already 
prepared : and, besides, the voiee of 
duty spoke by my lips. Whatever be 
the result to him or to me# I eaanot 
blame myself for doing that which was 
right. Weak men judge even their 
own actions by the results, when, ia 
fact, they should forget all b«t tba 
motive i an d when satisiied thai th^ 
are just and sdi cieBl^ should leave all 
the rest in the hands of God* I will 
think of this no more. It is but folly i* 
and rising, be advanced to the window, 
before which he heard the sound dT 
people's voices speaking. 

'The surprise a( Lord Beverley was 
not small at beholding straight before 
him, the long person and never-to-be- 
tnistaken nose of Gaptain Deciduoua 
Barecolt, standing side by side with 
Sir John Hotham, governor of Hull> 
and apparently upon terms of graeioua 
intimacy with that officer. 

Barecolt was at that moment draw- 
ing, with the point of a oane upon the 
ground, a number of Imes and angles, 
whioh seemed to the eyes of Lord 
Beverley very much like the plan of a 
fortification, while three stout soldiivs, 
apparently in attendance upon 1h« 
governor, stood at a little distancet^ 
and looked on in grave and respectful 
silence. Every now and then the iror- 
thy captain seised Sir John by the 
breast of bii coat with all the eiuigge* 
rated gesticulation of a Frenchmaoy 
pointed to the Hnes he had drawn, held 
out his stick towards other parts of 
Hull, shrugged, grinned, and chat- 
tered, and then flew back to his de- 
monstration again, with the utmost 
appearance of seal and good- will. 

<< What, in the name of fortune, 
can the fellow be about !" murmured 
the earl. ** He is surely not goir^ to 
fortify Hull against the king! Well, 
1 suppoeei if he doi U will b9 easBj 

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Arrah NtUi or^ TinUi qf OU, 


Ukeo. That ia oob eom(&rt. But, on 
mj wordf he mtm» to have made great 
progrett in Hotham's good graeee. 
I trust it is oot at my expense^-*— 
N09 no I He is not one of that sort 
of men. Folly and Tice enongh^ but 
not disboBotir. I have no'smfdl mind 
to try ray eloquence on Hotham too," 
coatinned the earl j '' I do not thiiJc 
be 13 so far committed with the par- 
liament, as to be beyond recall to a 
sense of daty. He need to be a vain, 
as well as an ambidous man ; and, 
perhaps, if one oould bat hold oot to 
bis vanity and ambition the prospect of 
great honour aad advancement, as the 
reward for taking the first step towards 
healing the breaohes in his country's 
peace, by making submission to tiie 
iuog, he might be gained. It is worth 
the trial, and if it cost me my head» 
U shall be made." 

Ashe thus pondered, the governor and 
Captain Barecolt walked slowly on, fol- 
lowed by the three soldiers ; and the son- 
tinel before the door of the block-house^ 
re-conunenoed hb perambulations. 

<< Hollo I moiisieiir/* oried Lord 
Beverley, from the window ; and 
on the approach of the soldier, he 
explained to him in a mixed jargon of 
French and Englishi that he much 
wished to have an interview with the 
governor, adding, that if it weie 
granted, he might communicate som*i> 
thing to Sir John Hotham, which he 
would find of great importance. 

« Wh;ri there he stands," oried 
the soldier, '^talking with the other 
Freaehman^" and he pointed with his 
hand to a spot which the earl could 
not see, but where the governor had 
again paused to listen to Captaiii Dare- 
oolt's plans and devices* 

** AUesh aUez! tell himl" oried 
Lord Beverley ; and the man imme*> 
diately hastened to give the mes- 

'.. je minutes he returned, 
saying, "he will send for you in an 
hour or two, monsieur; and in the 
mean time, here comes your breakfiwt 
piping hot." 


lloaB tium an hour went by, without 
Lord Beverley hearing any thing far- 
ther from the govemor-^and he was 
littiDff at the table, meditating over 
his sdieme, when his ear caught the 
soand of voioea without. 

** Ah, here comes the messenger," 
he thought, ** to summon me to Ho* 
tham's presence ;" but the moment 
after, be distinguished the tones of his 
worthy companion, Barecolt, who 
eidaimed, apparently addressing the 
sentinel, ** But I most see de blook- 
houie, I tell you» sair, it be part of my 
^Qtee to see de blocluhouse, and here 
be de wor^ Capitaine Jenkin, one 
tBU of de bag respectability, who tell 
70a de same thi^.'^ 

Captain Jenkins ffrumbled a word 
er two in oonfirmatton of Barecolt*8 
Msertioni but the sentinel adhered 
•tead^Mtly to his point, and said that 
the mouoseer miplit do what he pleased 
with the outsiiM of the place, but 
ihoold not set hb foot within the doors 
withottt a special order from the go- 
vernor, under his own hand. 

Of this permisaion, limited as it 
wai, Barecolt hastened to take advan- 
ti9» } aftd Junriog .previously asoer- 

tained that his companion, Jenkins, 
did not understand one word of the 
French language, he approached the 
window, at which he had caught sight 
of the face of Lord Beverley, and 
which was open, declaring that he 
must look into the inside at all events. 

The moment he was near, however, 
he said to the prisoner, rapidly, but 
in a low tone, '< What can I>o done to 
get you out?" 

He spoke in French, and the earl 
answered in the same tongue, ** No- 
thing that I know \ but be ready to 
help me at a moment's notice* Where 
are you to be found ?** 

'' At the Swan Inn," replied Bar&. 
eolt, " but 1 will be with you in the 
course of this night — I have a plan in 
my head;" and seeing that Captain 
JenkinSf who had been speaking a 
word or two to the sentinel, was now 
approachinff, he walked on, and busied 
himself wiui examining the rest of the 

Not long after he was gone, the 
earl was summoned before the gover- 
nor ) and with one of the train-bands 
on each side— for, at this time, Hull 
could boast of no other garriaoB— he 

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Arrah Neil: or, Time$ of Old. 


was led from the block-house to Sir 
John Hotham's residence. After being 
condacted up a wide flight of stairs* 
he was shown into the same large room 
in which the examination of Barecolt 
had taken place. On the present occa- 
sion, however, to the surprise, and 
somewhat to the dismay of the earl, he 
found the room half filled with people, 
manj of whom he knew—and for an 
instant forgetting how completely he 
was disguised, he thought that all his 
scheme must now fall to the gpround, 
and his immediate discovery take place. 

The cold and strange looRs, however, 
that were turned upon him, both by 
Hotham himself, and several of the 
officers, to whom the earl was person- 
ally known, soon restored his confi- 
dence, and showed him that he was 
far better disguised than he had ima- 
gined. Never losing his presence of 
mind for a single instant, he advanced 
at once to Sir John Hotham, and made 
him a low bow, asking if he were the 
governor ? The answer, of course, 
was in the affirmative, and Hotham 
proceeded to question him in French, 
which he spoke with tolerable fluency. 
With never-failing readiness the earl 
answered all his questions, giving a 
most probable account of himself, and 
stating that he had come over from 
France with recommendations for the 
king, in the hope of getting some im- 
portant command, as it was expected 
every day at the French court that 
Charles would be oblieed to have re- 
course to arms against his parliament. 

Several of the gentlemen present, 
who had either been really at the court 
of France very lately, or pretended to 
have been so, stepped forward to ask 
a good number of questions of the 
prisoner, which were not yen conve- 
nient for him to answer. He con- 
tinued to parry them, however, with 
great dexterity for some time ; but at 
length finding that this sort of cross- 
examination could not go on much 
longer, without leading to his detec- 
tion, he turned suddenly to Sir John 
Hotham, and asked him in a low voice 
if the guard had given him the mes- 
sage which he had sent. 

" Yes," replied the governor, " I 
received the message ; what is it you 
have to communicate?** 

^Something, sir, for your private 
ear," continued the earl, still speaking 
in French ; '^ a matter which you wiU 

find of much importance, and which 
vou will not vegt^t to have known; 
but I can only discover it to you if 
you grant me an interview with you 

*^ Faith, I must hear more about 
you, sir, bdtbre I can do that," replied 
Hotham. ''Come hither with me, 
and I will speak to you for a moment 
in the window." 

Thus saying, he led the way to the 
further end of the room, where a deep 
bay-window looked out over the town. 
The distance from the rest of the com- 
pany was considerable, and the angle 
of the wall insured that no distinct 
sound could reach the other part of 
the hall; but still Lord Beverley 
determined, if possible, to obtain a 
greater d^^ee of privacy, for he knew 
not what might be the effect of the 
sudden disclosure he was about to 
make upon Sir John Hotham. 

'' Can I not speak with you in an- 
other room, sir ?" he asked, still using 
the French tongue. 

'' That is quite impossible," an- 
swered Sir John Hotham ; " you can 
say what you have to say here. Speak 
low, and no ears but mine will hear 

The earl looked down, and then 
raising his eyes suddenly to the gover- 
nor's face, he said in English — 

'' Do you know me. Sir John Ho- 

The governor started, and looked at 
him attentively for a moment or two» 
but then replied in a decided tone— 

" No, I do not" 

« Well, then," replied the earl, " I 
will try whether I know Sir John 
Hotham ; and whether he be the same 
man of honour I have always taken 
him to be. You see before you, 8ir« 
the Earl of Beverley, and you are well 
aware that the activi^ I have dia- 
played in the service of the kiiu^, and 
the number of persons whom I have 
brouffht over to his interest, by show- 
ing them that, whatever might be the 
case in times past, their duty to their 
king and their country is now the 
same — ^you are aware, I say, that these 
causes nave rendered the parliament 
my implacable enemies ; and I do be- 
lieve, that in confiding, as I do this 
day to you, instead of keeping up the 
disguise that I have mamtained hi- 
therto, I place myself in the hands of 
one who is too much a gentleaiaa to 

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Artdk Neil: or Times' of Old. 


giFe m% np to the fary of my adver- 

The astonishment which appeared 
on Sir John Hotham*8 face, while the 
earl was making this communication, 
might have attracted the attention of 
his son, and the rest of the company, 
had not his back been fortunately 
tnroed towards them. He gazed ear* 
nestly on the earl's countenance, how- 
erer, and at once recollecting his fea- 
tures, wondered that he had not dis- 
covered him at once. So transparent 
did the disguise seem as soon as he had 
the secret, that he could scarcely per- 
suade himself that the other gentle- 
men present would be long deceived, 
and be was only anxious to get the 
earl out of the room as soon as pos- 
sible, as he was determined to justify 
the honourable character attributed to 

''Say no more, say no more, sir," he 
replie<^ smoothing down his counte- 
nance as best he might ; ** we cannot 
talk upon this subject now. Rest sa- 
tisfied, however, that you will not be 
sorry for the trust you have reposed in 
me, and will find me the same man as 
^oa supposed. I will see you again 
m private whenever I may meet with 
a convenient opportunity ; but in the 
mean time I am afraid you must con- 
tent yourself with the poor accommoda- 
tion which you have, for any change in 
it would beget suspicion; and I nave 
shrewd and evil eyes upon me here, so 
1 most now send you away at once. 
Hare, guard," he continued, ''take the 
prisoner back. Let him be well used. 
And provided with all things necessary, 
bat at the same time have a strict eye 
upon him, and suffer no one to com- 
muiicate with him but myself." 

Lord Beverley bowed and withdrew, 
and Hotham, with strong signs of agi- 
tation still in his countenance, re- 
tamed to his companions, saying — 

" That Frenchman is a shrewd fel- 
low, and knows more of the queen's 
conncils than I could have imagined : 
bat I most go and write a despatch to 
the parlimnent, for he has told me 
things that they will be glad to know ; 
i&d I trust that in a few days I shall 
kim more from him still." 

Thos speaking, be retired from the 
hall, and one of the gentlemen pre- 
sent inquired of another who was 
fitandinff near^- 

^ Did you not think that what they 
Vol. XXUI.— No. 133. 

were saying just now in the window^ 
sounded very like English ?" 

"Oh," replied Colonel Hotham, 
"my father's French has quite an 
English tone. He changes the words, 
it is true, but not the accent." 

In the mean while the earl was car- 
ried back to the block-house, and to- 
wards evening he received a few words, 
written on a scrap of paper, telling 
him that the governor would be with 
him about ten o'clock that night. 

This was a mark of favour and 
consideration which Lord Beverley 
scarcely expected, notwithstanding the 
difference of rank between himself 
and Sir John Hotham, and the pro- 
mises of honourable dealing which the 
latter had made. There were also 
signs of a willingness to attend to his 
comfort, which ^ere even more con- 
solatory, in the conclusions he drew 
from them, than in the acts themselves. 
Poor Sinbad the sailor, when he fell 
into the hands of the cannibal blacks, 
looked upon all the good cheer that 
they placed before him, as merely the 
means employed to fatten him, pre- 
vious to killing and eating him ; but 
as we have never had such anthropo- 
phagous habits in Great Britain, even 
during the great rebellion itself, when 
the earl saw sundry much more sa- 
voury dishes provided for his dinner 
than he had hitherto been favoured 
with, and a bottle of very good wine 
to wash them down withal, he received 
them as a mark of the governor's good 
intentions, and an indication that there 
was some probability of his imprison- 
ment coming to an end by a more plea- 
sant process than a walk to the scaf- 

He eat and drank then with re- 
newed hope, and saw the sun go down 
with pleasure, totally forgetting Cap- 
tain Barecolt's promise to see him at 
night, which, if he had remembered 
it might have somewhat disturbed his 

I know not whether the people of 
Hull are still a tribe early in their ha- 
bits ; but certainly such was the case 
in those days ; and towards nine 
o'clock, or a little after, the noises of 
a great town began to die away, and 
silence to resume her reign through 
the place. The watch, who had a pu- 
ritanical horror of every thing like 
merriment, as the reader may have in 
some degree perceived, took care to 

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Arrah Neil: or, Times of Old. 


suffer neither shouting nor brawling 
in the streets of the good citjr after 
dark ; and though from the windows 
of the room in which he was confined, 
the noble earl saw many a lantern pass 
along, it was still with a sober and 
steady pace ; and with his usual ima- 
ginative activity of mind, he amused 
himself with fancying the character 
and occupation of the various persons 
who thus flitted before his eyes, with 
many a comment and meditative reflec- 
tion upon every thing in man's fate 
and nature. The lanterns, however, 
like the sounds, grew less and less fre- 
quent, and near a quarter of an hour 
had passed, without his seeing one, 
when at length the clock of the neigh- 
bouring church slowly struck the hour 
often, pausine long upon every dull tone 
which seemed like the voice of Time 
regretting the minutes that had floWn. 

In about ten minutes more, the 
sentry before the block-house chal- 
lenged some one who approached ra- 
ther nearer than he thought proper to 
his post. A signal word was given in 
reply; and the next moment the sounds 
of bolts being withdrawn, and keys 
turned in the lock were heard, an- 
nouncing the approach of a visitor. 
The opening door, as the earl ex- 
pected, showed the stout and some- 
what heavy person of Sir John Ho- 
tham, who entered with a sort of fur- 
tive look behind him, as if he were 
afraid of being watched. 

" Keep at some distance in front," 
he said, turning to the ^uard ; " and 
do not let any one, commg from the 
side of my house, approach within a 
hundred yards." Thus saying, he 
shut the door of the room, locked it, 
and put the key in his pocket ; then 
turning to the prisoner he observed — 
" It is a terrible thing, my lord, to 
have nothing but spies about one, and 
yet such is my case. I do not know 
what 1 have done to deserve this." 

** It is the most natural thinff in the 
world, Sir John," said the earl, shak- 
ing him warmly by the hand ; " when 
perverse, rash, and rebellious men 
know that they have to deal with a 
gentleman of honour, who, however 
much he may be attached to liberty, is 
well disposed towards his sovereign, 
they naturaily suspect, and spy upon 

** You judge me rightly, my lord — 
you^ judge me rightly," , replied Sir 

John Hotham ; " I have always been 
a friend equally to my country and mj 
king ; and deeply do I lament th'e dis- 
cord which has arisen between his ma^ 
jesty and the parliament. But I see 
you understand my conduct well, my 
lord, and need not be told that I en- 
tertain very different principles from 
the men who have driven things into 
this strait. I vow to God I have al- 
ways entertained the highest affection 
and sense of duty towards his majesty, 
and lament deeply to think that my 
refusing to open the gates of Hull, 
when the king demanded entrance, 
will always be considered as the be- 
ginning, and perhaps the cause of this 
civil war, whereas I did it in my own 

♦* Indeed 1" exclaimed the earl. 
'< The king is not aware that such is 
the case ; for when many people as- 
sured his majesty, that there must 
have been some error in the business, 
he has replied often, ' God grant it be 
so ; for I always held Sir John Hotham 
to be a man of singular uprightness, 
and well-affected towards myself, un- 
til he ventured to shut his gates in his 
king's face." 

" Ay, sir," exclaimed the governor, 
^'both the kinff and I have been greatly 
deceived ; and I will now tell you what 
I never told to any one, which I will 
beseech you, when we find means to 
set you free, to report to his majesty, 
that he may judge favourably of me. 
There were certain men, whom I have 
since discovered to be arrant knaves, 
and employed by the more furious per- 
sons of the parliament to deceive me, 
who assured me, with every protesta- 
tion of concern for my safety, that it 
was the king's intention, as soon as he 
got into Hull, to hang me without 
form of trial, farther than a m&re 
summary court-martial." 

" It was false, sir ; it was false alto- 
gether, I assure you," replied the earl. 
*' Nothing was ever further from the 
king's intention." 

*' I know it — I know it now," an- 
swered Sir John Hotham; <*but I 
believed it at the time. However, to 
speak of what more nearly concerns 
you, my lord, I came hither to tell you, 
that as you have so frankly put your- 
self in my hands, I will in no degree 
betray your trust ; and I much wish 
you to consider in what way, and upon 
what pretext, I can set you at liberty. 

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Arrah NeU: or,' Ttmes of Old. 


80 that jou may safelj go whitherso- 
erer you will. But there is one thing 
you must remember, that the secret 
of who and what you are, and of my 
wish to treat you kindly, must be kept 
inviolably between ybu and me ; for 
there is not a man here whom I can 
trust ; and especially not my own son, 
who is one of the worst and most evil- 
intentioned men, towards the king and 
his own father, in all the realm." 

" The only way that I can see," re- 
plied the earl, " will be for me to pass 
for a Frenchman still ; and for you to 
make it appear, that I am willing to 
purchase my liberty by giving you, at 
once, some information regarding his 
majesty's designs, and obtaining more 
for you hereafter. But so sure am I 
of your gtK>d intentions towards me, 
that I fear not to remain here several 
days, if I may but hope that through 
my poor mediation, you and the king 
may be reconciled to each other. It 
is, indeed, a sad and terrible thing, 
that a handful of ill-disposed men, 
such as those who now rule in the 
parliament, should be able to over- 
whelm this country with bloodshed 
and devastation, when the king him- 
self is willing \o grant his people 
every thing that they can rightly and 
justly demand ; and moreover, that 
thev should have the power, when 
their intention is clearly, not alone to 
overthrow this or that monarch, but 
to destroy and abolish monarchy itself, 
to involve grentlemen of high esteem, 
ftuoh as yourself, in acts which they 
abhor, and which must first prove dis- 
astrous to the country, and ultimately 
destructive to themselves. Do not 
let them deceive you, Sir John," he 
continued: "this struggle can have 
hot one termination, as you will plainly 
see if you consider a few points. You 
cannot for a moment doubt, that the 
turbulence and exactions of these men 
have already alienated from them the 
affections of the great body of the 
people. The king is now at the 
bead of a powerfvd force, which is 
daily increasing. A great supply of 
ammunition and arms has just been 
received. The fleet is entirely at his 
di^osal, and ready to appear before 
any place against which he may direct 
it. And, aJthot^h he is unwilling to 
employ foreign troops against his re- 
bdlious subjects till the last extremity, 
yet you most evidently perceive that 

every prince in Christendom is per- 
sonally interested in supporting his 
migesty, and will do it as soon as 
asked. Nay, more: I will tell you 
what is not generally known, that the 
Prince of Orange is now preparing to 
come over, at the head of his army ; 
and you may well suppose that his 
first stroke will be at Hull, which can- 
not resist him three days." 

Sir John Hotham looked somewhat 
bewildered and confounded by all 
these arguments, and exclaimed in a 
musing tone, " How is it to be done ? 
— that is the only question. How is it 
to be done ?" 

" Ifyou mean. Sir John," continued 
Lord Beverley, *'how is peace to be re- 
stored to the country, methinks it may 
be easily done ; but first I would have 
you consider, what glory and renown 
would accrue to that man who should 
ward off all these terrible events; who, 
by his sole power and authority, and by 
setting a noble example to his country- 
men, should pave the way to a reconci- 
liation between King Charles and his 
parliament ; and at the same time se- 
cure the rights and liberties of the 
people and the stability of the throne. 
1 will ask you if you are not sure, 
that both monarch and people, seeing 
themselves delivered from the horrors 
of a civil war, would not join in over- 
whelming him with honours and 
rewards of all kinds, and whether his 
name would not descend to posterity 
as the preserver of his country. You 
are the man. Sir John Hotham, who 
can do all this. You are the man who 
can obtain this glorious name. The 
surrender of Hull to the king would 
at once remedy the mistakes committed 
on both parts, would crush the civil 
war in the egg, would strengthen the 
good intentions of all the wise and 
better men in the parliament, would 
make the whole country rise as one 
man, to cast off the treason in which 
it has unwillingly taken part ; and for 
my own self I can only say, that men 
attribute to me some influence, both 
with the king and queen, and that all 
which I do possess should be employed 
to obtain for you due recompense for 
the services you have rendered your 

Hotham was evidently touched and 
moved ; for so skilfully had the earl 
introduced every subject that could 
affect the various passions of which he 

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Arrah Neil: or^ Times of Old. 


VM soBceptibley that at every word 
some new pleader had risen np in the 
bosom of the governor, to advocate 
the same coarse that Lord Beverley 
was urging. Now it was fear that 
spoke ; now hope ; now anger at the 
suspicions entertained by the parlia- 
ment; now expectations from the 
king. Pride, vanity, ambition, all had 
their word ; and good Sir John's face 
betrayed the agitation and wavering 
of his mind, so that the earl was in 
no slight hope of speedily gaining one 
of the most important converts that 
could be made to the royal cause, when 
to the surprise of both, the door of 
the chamber in which they were was 
violently shaken from without, and a 
voice was heard muttering, with a 
tremendous oath :^- 

"They have taken the key out: 
curse me if I donH force the lock off 
with my dagger.** 

Sir John Hotham started and look« 
ed toward the door with fear and tre* 
pidation, for he expected nothing less 
than to see the face of his son, or 
some other of the violent men, who had 
been sent down by the parliament ; 
and to say truth, not the countenance 
of a personage, whose appearance in 
his own proper person is generally de- 
precated by even those who have the 
closest connection with him "sub 

rosa," could have been more unplea- 
sant to the governor of HulL The 
Earl of Beverley started too, with no 
very com/ortable feelings ; for, not 
only was he unwilling to have his con- 
versation at that moment interrupted, 
but moreover, dear reader, he recog- 
nised at once the tones of the mag- 
nanimous Captain Bareoolt 

** It is my son, on my life !** cried 
Hotham, in a low tone. " What, in 
the fiend's name, is to be done? This 
insolence is insufferable ; and yet I 
would give my right hand not to be 
found here ! Hark, on my life, he is 
forcing the lockl" 

" Stay, stay I" whispered the earL 
" Get behind the bed ; but first give 
me the key. I pledge you my word. 
Sir John, not even to attempt an es- 
cape ; and moreover, to send this per- 
son away without discovering you. 
Leave him to me — Cleave him to me. 
You may trust me !*' 

"Oh, willingly — willingly,** cried 
Sir John, giving him the key, and 
drawing back b^ind the bed. " For 
heaven*s sake, do not let him find 

The earl took the key, and ap- 
proached the door ; but before we re- 
late what followed, we must turn for 
a moment to explain the sudden ap« 
pearance of Captam Barecolt 


Captain Barccolt was not, according 
to the old proverb, like a garden full of 
weeds — for, although he was undoubt- 
edly a man of words, he was also a 
roan of deeds, as the reader may have 
already remarked, and the deeds which 
he had performed since we last left 
him sitting in the parlour of Mrs. 
White, were manifold and various. 
His first expedition was to the cham- 
ber of Arran Neil, where the worthy 
landlady*s sense of decorum, as well 
as her privilege of curiosity, kept her 
present during the conference. 

Poor Arrah, although at one time 
she certainly had not been impressed 
with the deepest sense of the personal 
merits of Captain Deciduous Barecolt, 
had seen enough of his conduct in the 
skirmish, which took place at the 
bridge, to entertain a much higher 
respect for him than before, and even 

had not such been the case, there ia 
something in the very sip^ht of persons 
whom we have beheld in companion- 
ship with those we love, which, by 
awakening sweet associations — those 
pleasant door-keepers of the heart-^ 
renders their presence cheering to ua 
in the hour of misfortune and distress. 
Mrs. White, too, upon Captain Bare- 
colt's own statement, had assured 
Arrah, that he came expressly to de- 
liver her; and she looked upon her 
escape from the clutches of Mr. Dry, 
as now quite certain, with the aid of 
the good landlady, and the more vigo- 
rous assistance of Barecolt's long arm, 
and lonff sword. She greeted him 

gladly, th A, and with a bright smile ; 
ut Barecolt, when he now saw her, 
could scarcely believe that she was the 
same person with whom he had 
marched two days during the advance LjOOQ IC 


Arrah Neitt or. Times of Old. 


firom Bishop's MertoD» not alone from 
the change of her dress, though that 
of course made a very great difference ; 
bat from the look of intelligence and 
mind, which her whole countenance 
displajedt and from the total absence 
of that lost and bewildered expression, 
whldi had been before so frequently 
present on her face. Her great beauty, 
which had then been often clouded by 
tiiat strange shadow that we have 
so frequently mentioned, was now 
Bgfated up like a fair landscape, first 
seen in the dim twilight of the morn- 
ing, when the sun rises upon it in all 
the migesty of light. 

" Do not be the least afraid, my 
dear young lady,** said Captain Bare- 
colt, after the first congratulations of 
their meeting were over, and he had 
quieted down his surprise and admi- 
ration. . " Do not be at all afraid. 
I will delirer you, if the gates should 
be guarded by fiery dragons. Not 
only have I a thousand times accom- 
plished enterprizes to which this of 
circumventing the dull burgesses of 
Hull is no more than eating the mites 
of a cheese off the point of a knife ; 
but here we have to assist us ffood 
Mrs. White, one of the most excellent 
women that ever lived upon the fsce 
of this earth. It is true, I have but 
had the pleasure and honour of her 
acquaintance for the space of one hour 
ana three quarters; but when you 
come to consider that I have been 
called upon to converse, and deal with, 
and investigate, and examine, in the 
most perilous circumstances, and in 
the most awful situations, many mil- 
fions of my fellow-creatures of every 
ififferent shade, variety, and complexion 
of mind, you will easily understand 
that it needs but a glance for me to 
esthnate and appreciate the excellence 
of a person so well disposed as Bdrs* 

"Oh, ves!" cried Arrah, inter- 
mpting huu, ^ I know that she is 
kind and good, and will do everything 
on earth to help and deUver me. She 
was kind to me long ago, and one can 
never forget kindness. But, when 
shall we go. Captain Barecolt ? Can- 
not we go to-night?" 

<< That is iinpossible, my dear young 
lady," replied Barecolt, ** for there are 
many things to be done in the first 
instance. These papers, which Mrs. 
White talks of> they must be obtained 

if possible. Has this man got them 
about him, do you think ?** 

«* I cannot tell,*' replied Arrah, " I 
do not even know tiiat he has got them 
at all. I only know that the cottage 
was stripped, when I came back, and 
that they, with every thing else, were 

" Oh, he has got them I — He has 
got them, my dear child 1** — cried Mrs. 
White; ''for depend upon it, that if 
he did not know you were a veir dif- 
ferent person from Sargeant NeiFs 
grand-daughter, just as well as I do, 
he would never be so anxious about 
marrying vou — a wizened old red- 
herring. 1 dare say, he has got them 
safe in his trunk mail.'' 

" 1 will go," said Barecolt, '* and 
cut them out of his heart," and at the 
same moment he rose, laid his hand 
upon his dagger, and strode towards 
the door. 

" Don't do him any mischief-.-don*t 
do him any mischief in my house," 
cried Mrs. White, laying her hand 
upon the captain's arm. •' Pray, re- 
member, captain, there will be in- 
quiry made, as sure as you are alive. 
You bad better not take them, till 
you are quite ready to go." 

** Thou art a wise woman, Mrs. 
White," replied Captain Barecolt— 
*' thou art a wise woman, and I will 
forbear. I will but ascertain whether 
he have these papers, while he yet lies 
in the mud of drunkenness, and leave 
the appropriation of them till an after 

Thus saying, he quitted the room» 
and having marked with all his shrewd 
perception the door which had opened 
and shut, when the reverend and re- 
spectable Mr. Dry, of Lonssoaken, 
was carried tipsy to his bed, he 
walked strai^t into his room with 
a candle in his hand, and approaching 
the drunken man, gazed on his fkoe, 
to see that he was still in ^t state of 
insensibility to what was passing round 
him, which was necessary to his pre- 
sent purposes. Mr. Dry was happily 
snoring unconsciously almost m a 
state of apoplexy ; and approaching a 
large pair of saddle bags, Barecolt 
took them up, laid them on a chair, 
and opened diem without either cere- 
mony or scruple. The wardrobe of 
Mr. Dry was soon exposed to riew : 
a short cloak, a black coa^ a clean 
stiff band^ well starched and ironed in 

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Arrah Neil: or^ Times of Old. 


case he should be called upon to hold 
forth ; a pair of brown breeches and 
grey stocking ; three shirts of deli- 
cately fine hnen, and sundry other 
articles were soon cast upon the 
grounds and the arm of the valorous 
captain, plunged up to the elbow in 
the heart of the bags, searching about 
for any thing having the feel of paper. 
For some mmutes his perquisition was 
vain> but at length in drawing out his 
hand suddenly^ the knuckles struck 
against the lining of the bag at a spot 
where something like a button made 
itself apparent} and feeling more 
closely, the worthy captain discovered 
an inside pocket. 

Into that his fingers were soon 
dipped, and with an air of triumph he 
drew forth some three sheets of writ- 
ten paper, and carrying them to the 
candle, examined them minutely. What 
was his disappointment, however, when 
the first words that struck his eyes, 
were : *' Habakkuk, ii. 5 ; Chronicles, 
ii. vii. 9 ; Micah, 6 ; Lamentations, 
iii. 7 ; Amos, ii. 4. — For three trans- 

f*essions of Judah, and for four, 
will not turn away the punishment 

** The hypocritical old swine," cried 
Bai^olt, '' what have we got next, 
and lurning over the page, he looked 
at the paper which was enclosed in the 
«ih'er, which he found to be something 
a little more important, namely, a let- 
,ter firom the parliamentary Colonel 
Thistleton to Mr. Dry, informing him 
that he would be at Bishop's Merton, 
on the day after the date thereof, and 
begging him to keep a watchful eye 
upon the malignant lord, that no 
chai^^ might take i>lace till he ar- 
rived, thus establishing bevond all 
manner of doubt worthy Mr, Dry's 
accessoryship in the visit of the par- 
liamentary commissioners to the house 
of Lord Walton. 

The next paper, which was the pnly 
one now remaining, seemed to puzzle 
Captain Barecolt more than even Mr. 
Dry*s list of texts. It was evidently 
a paper of memoranda, in his own 
hand-writing, but so brief that, with- 
out some clue, little could be made of 
it. At the top stood the name of 
Hugh O'Donnell; then came the 
words, *' Whose daughter was her 
mother ?" Below that was written — 
" Are there any of them living ? 
What's the county ? Ulster, it would 

seem. Sequestrated? or attainted? 
Where did the money come firom? 
How much a year? What will he 

Bearing this away, after having 
made another search in the bag, and 
thrown it down upon the scattered 
articles of clothing, which remained 
upon the floor, worthy Captain Bare- 
colt retrod his steps to the room of 
Arrah Neil, and there, with the fair 
girl herself, and the worthy landlady, he 
pored over the paper, and endeavoured 
to gain some farther insight into its 

Conjectures enough were formed ; 
but with them we will not trouble the 
reader — suffice it, that Captain Bare- 
colt determined to copy the paper, 
which being done, he replaced it with 
Mr. Dry's apparel in that worthy gen- 
tleman's bags, and then left him to 
sleep off his drunkenness, wishing him 
heartily that sort of sickening head- 
ache, which is the usual consequence 
of such intemperance as he had in- 
dulged in that night. 

'To Arrah Neilhe subsequently ex- 
plained that his various avocations 
m the town of Hull would give him 
enough to do during the following 
day, but that he did hope and trust, 
about midnight, or very early the next 
morning, to be able to guide her safely 
forth from the gates of Hull, together 
with a friend of his who, he explained 
to her, was still a captive in the hands 
of the governor. 

After bidding her adieu, he de- 
scended once more to the little parlour 
of Mrs. White, and there held a long 
and confidential conference with her 
regarding his proceedings on the fol- 
lowing day. He found the good lady 
all that he could have desired, a 
stanch royalist at heart, and *! 
roughly acquainted with the charac- 
ter, views, and principles, of a multi- 
tude of the officersmnd soldiers of the 
train-bands. She told him whom he 
could depend upon, and whom he 
could not ; where, when, and how they 
were to be found, and what were the 
best means of rendering them accessi- 
ble to his solicitations. She abo fur- 
nished him with the address of Mr. 
Hugh O'Donnell, and having gained 
all this information, the worthy ck^ 
tain retired to bed to rise prepared 
for action on the following day. 

Profound were his alumb^ No 

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Arrah Neil: or, Timet of OH. 


dream shook the long and cnmhrons 
body that lay there like some colossal 
column fiiUen on the sands of the de- 
sert, and he scarcely moved or stirred 
a finger till the morning lupht peeped 
with her grey eye in at the window, 
when up he started, rubbing his head 
and exclaiming, '' There's the trum- 
pet, by " 

It was the first vision he had had, 
but in a moment or two he was wide 
awake again, and remembering his ap- 
pointment with the governor of Hull, 
he plunged his head into cold water, 
wiped it with the towels provided, 
drew his beard into a neat point, and 
putting on his clothes, again descended 
to seek for some breakfast before he 
set out. 

He had not ffot through half the 
flagon of beer however, nor demo- 
lished above a pound of beef, when 
Captain Jenkins arrived, and found 
him speaking execrable English to 
Nancy, in order to hurry her with 
some ^ed eggs, which she was pre- 
paring as an addition to the meal. 

** Begar, I never was see such wo- 
man as de English cooks. Dem can 
no more make de omlet dan dey can 
fly. Vait but von leetle meenute, my 
dear Captiun Jenkin, and I go wid 

"I can't wait," said Captain Jen- 
kins, in a rough tone, "it's time to 
be there now. If you had lodged at 
the Rose, we should not have had half 
8o far to ffo." 

*' Ah, oat is very true, dat is very 
true," cried Barecolt, ** I lodge dere 
anoder time, but if we must go, why 
den here goes,** and putting the tan- 
Icard to his mouth, with one long and 
prodigious draught he brought the 
liquor within to the bottom. Being 
then once more conducted to the pre- 
sence of the governor, he was de- 
tain^ some little time while Sir John 
gave various orders and directions, 
and then set out with him upon a 
tour of the fortifications, followed, as 
we have represented the party, by three 
stout Soldiers, Captain J enkins having 
been dismissed for the time. If Bare- 
colt, however, had won upon the go- 
vernor during their first interview, 
on this second occasion he ingratiated 
himself still further with the worthy 
officer. Nor, indeed, was it without 
cause, that Barecolt rose high in the 
opinion of Sir John, for he had hb 

own sense of what was honest and 
right, though it was a somewhat 
twisted and perverted one, and he 
would not, on any account, so long as 
his advice was asked, and likely to be 
taken, have given wrong and dange- 
rous counsel upon the pretence of 
friendship and service. 

He pointed out then to the gover- 
nor, with great shrewdness and dis- 
crimination, numerous weak points in 
the defences, gave him various hints 
for strengthening them without the 
loss of much time, and while pausing 
before the block-house, in which he 
knew Lord Beverley was confined, he 
drew upon the ^ound the plan of a 
small lort, which he showed the go- 
vernor might be very serviceable in 
the defence of the town upon the river 

Having now ffone nearly half round 
the walls, and being pressed by hun- 
ger as much as business. Sir John re- 
turned to break his fast, and once 
more placed Captain Barecolt under 
the guidance of Jenkins, adding a 
hint, however, to the latter, that his 
suspicions of the Frenchman were re- 
moved, and that every assistance was 
to be given him in carrying into exe- 
cution the suggestions he had made. 

Barecolt's difficulty now was, how 
to get rid of his companion, but 
as tne ^citizen-soldier was somewhat 
pursy and heavy in his temperament, 
our worthy firiend contrivea, in the 
space of a few hours, to cast him in 
such a state of perspiration and fa- 
tigue by rapid motion from one part 
of the town to the other, that he was 
ready to drop. In the course of these 
perambulations, he led him, as we 
nave seen, once more past the block- 
house, in order to confer for a mo- 
ment with Lord Beverley, after which 
he brought him dexterously Into the 
neighbourhood of his own dwelling, and 
then telling him if he would go and 
get his dinner, while he did the same, 
they would meet again in two hours 
at a spot which he named. 

The proposal was a blessed relief to 
the captain of the trainbands, who in- 
ternally promised himself to take very 
food care to give the long-legged 
'renchman as little of his company as 

Barecolt, however, though his ap- 
petite, as the reader knows, was of a 
capacious and ever-ready kind, sacri- 

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Arrah Neil : or. Times of Old. 


ficed inclination to what he considered 
duty, and hastened, without breaking 
bread, to seek two of those persons, 
whom Mrs. White had pointed out to 
him as worthy of all confidence, and 
likely to engage in the adventure 
which he had in hand. 

He had some difficulty, however, in 
making the first of these, who was an 
Ancient of the trainbands, and well- 
affected to the king, repose any trust 
in him — for the man was prudent and 
somewhat suspicious by nature, and 
he entertained shrewd doubts as to 
the honesty of Captain Barecolt*s pur- 
pose towards him. He shook his head, 
assumed a blank and somewhat un- 
meaning countenance, vowed he did 
not understand, and when the worthy 
captain spoke more plainly, told him 
that he had better take care how he 
talked such stuff in Hull. 

On this hint Barecolt withdrew, 
guspecting that the information he 
had received from his landlady was 
not the most accurate in the world. 
He resolved, however, to make ano- 
ther effort, and try to gain assistance 
from the second person she had men- 
tioned, though he, having displayed his 
loyalty somewhat too openly, was not 
one to be placed in a situation of confi- 
dence by the officers of the parliament. 

This man, who was a sign-painter by 
trade named, Falgate,was found, with 
much difficulty, living up two pair of 
stiurs in a back street; but when Cap- 
tain Barecolt had climbed to his high 
abode, he found a personage of a 
firank and joyful countenance hewing 
away at the remuns of a leg of mut- 
ton in the midst of a large wooden 
trencher, and washing his food down 
with copious draughts of what seemed 
very good beer. His propensity to- 
wards these creature-comforts was a 
favourable omen in the eyes of our wor- 
thy captain; but he was joyfully sur- 
prised when ^ood Diggory Falgate 
started up, with his mouth all shining 
with mutton fat, and embraced him 
heartily, exclaiming " Welcome, my 
noble captain. I have been expecting 
you this last hour." 

He proceeded, however, speedily, to 
explain, that he had looked in at the 
Swan a short time before, to take his 
morning draught, and that the good 
landlady had given him information 
of Captain Bareoolt's character and 

With him all Arrangements were 
very easy. Diggory Falgate was 
ready for any enterprize that might 
present itself, and with the gay and 
dashing spirit which reigned amonffst 
cavaliers of high and low degree, ne 
was just as willing to walk up to a 
cannon*s mouth in the service of the 
king, as to a tankard of strong waters 
on his own behalf— to cut down a 
roundhead, to make love to a pretty 
maiden, to spend his money, or to sing 
hb song. 

" Ha, ha, ha I " he exclaimed, as 
Barecolt intimated to him the rebuff 
that he met with from the ancient of 
the trainbands, " Billy Hazard is a 
cunning rogue. Til bet you a pint of 
sack that he thought you some round- 
head come to take him in. Stay here, 
stay here, and finish my tankard for 
me. rU run and fetch biro, and you 
will soon see a difference." 

Barecolt willingly agreed to play 
the part he proposed, and before he 
had made free more than twice with 
the large black jug which graced his 
new friend's table, Falgate had himself 
returned followed by his more sedate 
and cautious acquaintance. 

" Here he is, here he is, as wbe as 
a whipping-post," exclumed the sign- 
painter, *' which receives all the lasses 
and never says a word. There sits 
Caption Barecolt, ancient Hazard; 
so to him, and tell him what you will 
do to serve the king." 

" A great deal," replied Hazard. 
« I beg your pardon, sir, for giving 
you such a rough answer just now, 
but I did not know you." 

"Always be cautious, always be 
cautious, mine ancient," replied Bare- 
colt; "so will you be a general in 
time, and a good one ; but now let us 
to business as fast as possible. You 
must know that there's a prisoner " 
"Ay, I know, in the block-house,*' 
cried Diggory Falgate, "and he is to 
be taken out to-night. Isn't it so, 
noble captain? Now III bet you three 
radishes to a dozen of crowns that 
this is some man of great conse- 
. Barecolt nodded his head. 

«; Is it the kmg?" asked Falgate in a 

" Phoo, nonsense," cried Barecolt 
" The king's at the head of his army, 
and, before ten days are over, will 
march into Hull with drum and co- 

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Jrrah Neil: or, Timet of Old. 


loorsy will hang the governor, disband 
the garrison, and overthrow the walls. 
Whj the place can no more hold out 
against the power that the kine has^ 
than a fresh egg can resist the side of 
a fr^ing-pao. No> this gentleman is 
a man of the greatest consequence^ in 
whom the king places the greatest re- 
liance, and he must be got out at all 
risks. If jou can but get rid of that 
cursed guard, if it hd but for ten 
minutes, I will do all the rest." 

** That will be no difficult matter," 
replied Hazard, after thinking for a 
moment. ** Here, Diggory and I will 
manage all that, but how will you eet 
him out of the town when yoirve 

''That's all arranged already," re- 
plied Barecolt, ** I have a pass for 
visiting the walls and gates at any 
hour between sunrise and sunset, to 
inspect and repair the fortifications, 
forsooth. I will manage the whole of 
that matter, but how will you contrive 
to get away the guard ?" 

Diggorjand his companion consult- 
ed for a moment together, and at 

leneih the former clapped his hands, 
exclaiming " That will do I that will 
do I Hark ye. Captain Barecolt, we 
are not particularly strict soldiers 
here, and I will get the fellow away 
to drink with me. 

" He won't do it," exclumed Bare 
colt. «« It's death by the law." 

" Then Til quarrel with him," re- 
plied Diggory, <'and, in either case, up 
comes mine ancient here, rates him 
soundly, and relieves him of his ffuard, 
sends him back to the guard-house, 
and bids him send down the next upon 
the roll. In the mean while you ^et 
your man out, and away with him, 
locking the door behind you ; and no 
one knows any thine of the matter." 

" It will do,'it will do," cried Bare- 
colt, and, after some further conver- 
sation, in which all the particulars of 
their plan were arranged, Barecolt 
took his leave, appointing them to 
meet him at the Swan that night to- 
wards ten o'clock, and proceeded on 
his way to seek out the house of Mr. 
Hugh O'Donnell. 

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72 Our P^rirait OaJkry. [Jan. 


The man who in some golden eventide has walked along the shores of the Great 
Deep, and watched the sun> after a day of darkness and terapest> gradually sink* 
ing m the horizon, until at length its hright disc is hidden altogether in the 
blue caverns of the ocean, must possess a bosom indeed cold, if he muses not a 
while on the scene which he has just witnessed. Around him roll the waves, no 
longer crested with the sunshine, but bearing on their brows' the dark shadow 
of the coming night ; before his eyes is spread a vast expanse of water, mingling 
&r off in the distance with the heavens, and offering tp the contemplative heart 
a type of the wide waters of eternity. Silence is in the sky, and by the sandy 
beach ; the ripple of the billow is the only sound that breaks at interyals upon 
his ear. Slowly and solemnly he paces thercj wrapt in reflection, and worship- 
ping in thought the majesty of nature. Anon the sky becomes darker, and the 
stars walk forth like young brides, all beautiful and eay ; and lastly, comes the 
moon, shining as an angol of poetry, wakening up all U^e fair and celestial feel- 
ings of his soul, making him in love with all creation and created beings, and 
bringing him, for an interval, under that seraph-like and virtuous spell which 
every spirit has sometimes fe)t, and which exalts it for a moment to a kindred with 
things of ethereal essence. . And thereupon the man rests and ponders long. 

Like the imaginary picture we have drawn, is the course of genius. Like 
that sun it speeds onward in majesty and splendour ; the hurricane and oloud 
may wrap it trom our eyes, but it shines not the less magnificently in its own 
place ; brightness is in its starry path, and power in its footsteps ; like that sun 
again it performs its course, and fades awav into the Abyss of Space ; like it is 
followed by the bright moon, a symbol of the fame which survives its departure. 
For as the moon is the reflection of the sun*s glory, so is fame the reflection of 
Genius, and both are immortal. 

It would be difficult to find any one to whom the foregoing similitude would 
better apply, than to the late William Maginn, so long the leading periodical 
writer of his day — the kind friend, the affectionate and delightful companion— 
the maUf in all the noblest senses of the word. ^ Crossed, and darkened, and em- 
bittered by clouds, as many a sunny day has been, was his career while he lived ; 
sorrow had cast her shadow over his soul ; poverty and neglect lay upon him 
like an eclipse ; the Hope, which in the morning of his manhood rose resplen- 
dentiy in the distance, and cast around his path imaginary triumphs, tropnies, 
and applause, had disappeared as he proceeded, and like the mirage of the 
desert, left only wretchecbiess and disappointment ; one hy one he had observed 
those who commenced life with knowledge and intellect far inferior to Ms own, 
with prospects less brilliant, and recommendations less powerful, outstrip him 
in the race, and bear away the honours and rewards, while to him there fell 
but a scanty apportionment of either ; calumny had added materially to the 
list of his errors, exaggerating those that were but ordinary, and inventing 
where she could not find a sin, and sneer and sarcasm from the meanest quarters, 
had done their worst against his character ; his heart had begun to grow old and 
a-weary of the world, and that innate sunshine of the mind which never deserted 
him, but was present even in the gloomiest circumstances, scarcely supported 
him amid the many troubles that sprang up like tempests in his path ;— -but im- 
mediately he was dead, his loss was lamented by universal assent, as if it had 
been some national calamity ; the many who had been politically opposed to 
him during his whole life, deplored his decease as if one of their own kindred 
had fallen ; Genius came and wept over his bier ; Envv masked her bitterness, 
and followed among his mourners; even those who had pursued him while 
living, with slander, did not dare to utter one word of detraction over his 
grave, and his fame at length arose and hovered about his tomb like the sUver 

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z'^?./''//; /..•'^// '/■.//•I /7'w/> 

.'Dtgit^edby CiOOQ IC 

Digitized by LjOOQ IC 

1844.] No. XXXir^WiUiam Maginn, LLJ). 73 

moonlight^ there to remain while his country has a name, and her language and 
literature are appreciated. And it miffht be said of him as truly as it was of 
the illustrious Agprippa, ip» Ihn r9»r» r« ^ftJn rf r§u 'Ay^nnteu hm» ^XXi^ »«} xtfh 
ir«#y rStt TiftmUtf 't>4Hr«~.*' his death appeared not the private lo«s of his own 
fiimily, but the public affliction of the entire realm."* Let the fact live, and go 
down to all posterity. It does more honour to the literary men of the pre- 
sent day than any thmg that has fallen within our knowledge for a considerable 

In our present paper it is our intention to inweave a few biogri^hical memo- 
randa of Maginn, with some critical observations which have been suggested 
by a perusal of his writings. These are many and diversifiedf scattered through 
numerous magazines and reviews, some of which are still flourishing, some 
extinct, some in the last stage of decomposition, and are, from peculiar circum- 
stances, better known to ourselves than most other readers or writers of perio- 
dical literature. Their variety proves the amazing versatility of his mind — theur 
excellence is an emblem of its wealth and beauty. Poetry, romance, and criti- 
cism, parody, translation, and burlesque — of these there are enshrined amid the 
Tast collection of his compositions, examples as perfect and splendid as any in 
the lai^page, and such as if presented to the world at one view could not fail 
to astonish, to gratify, and to instruct it. With this conviction indeed, it was 
at one period our wish to draw up a complete memoir for the purpose of being 
prefixed to a collected edition of his works, and in which might be preserved a 
picture for posterity of the man as he really was, and some relation of those 
transcendant stores of knowledge that he possessed; of the illumination of genius 
which he brought io bear upon every subject, grave or gay, that presented 
itself to his notice ; of the structure of his mind, and the circumstances of his 
career. Our expectations on this point were sang^ne, and seemed likely to be ful- 
filled. Already did we behold far off in the distance, the works of Maffinn (a goodly 
coUection of octavos) taking their place beside those of Swifl and Lucian, and 
refisrred to as authorities in the canons of criticism, and translation, and histo- 
rical anecdote, or consulted for their attractions of wit and humour. But on 
further experience it was found that this wish was of too Elysian a nature, to be 
gratified. Our own avocations in a profession more splendid, stately, and ex- 
alted than that of literature, formed the first obstacle to an undertaking which, on 
examination, it was discovered, would take a considerable time to complete, and 
interfere more materiaUy than was desirable with severe studies. Booksellers 
alao were inexorable, and were imwiUing to enter on a speculation so extensive 
and so hazardous as a republication of all Maginn's writings. Selections from 
the ^eat mass were suggested, but it was felt that to engage in such would be, 
considering the excellence of the entire, thoroughly disgraceful, and dishonour- 
able to the memory of so distinguished a man, and that no one who cared for 
his reputation with the future age would either counsel such a project, or lend 
liis hemd to its support. Other matters also intervened. In biography, as in all 
other matters, tntth should be the guiding star ; and to present to the world 
a portriut of a man's actions, without at the same time showing the rocks upon 
which he was wrecked, or the errors he committed, is to be a panegyrist, not 
the writer of a life. It is like the delicacy of Apelles, who painted Antigonus 
in profile, that he might hide the loss of one of his eyes,t and to our mind ap- 
pears not only an omission but even a crime. It was not in this way the ancients 
acted, and as they are in all things models of perfection, so oi^ht they to be in 
this. Throughout the entire range of antique treasures there is but one (the 
Cvroposdia) which exhibits the hero without a stain ; and this, we are told by 
Cicero, was intended to be the effigy of a just emperor, not the reality of sober 
trnth-t For these reasons, therefore, the composition of such a work must be 

*■ Dio Cassins, lib. 54. 

f Habet in picturk spedem tota fSacies. Apelles tamen Imaginem Antigoni latere 
tantum altero ostendit, at amlssi ocnli deformitas lateret.^ — Quiictu.. lib. 11. 
ew. 13. 

\ C^Tus ille a Xenophonte non ad historin fidem scriptus, sed ad effi^^em justi 
iiq^erii. — Cio. Epist. ad Quxnt. 

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74 Our Portrait OaUery.^ [[Jan. 

deferred until circumstances more favourable occur for its completion, until the 
whole truth can be disclosed, and the fiiilings of Maffinn traced to their full 
and foul source ; and in the meantime, as some memoriiu to the man, the follow- 
ing littke sketch is offered to supply a chasm in our literary history, and to gratify 
the curiosity of the many who admire the writings of the Doctor, and still 
fondly venerate his memory. 

There is scarcely a single point of view in which we contemplate the intelleo- . 
tual character of Magion, that we are not struck with admiration, with 
reverence, and with regard. As a poet, he has left behind him writings that 
breathe of the divinity of genius, and would be sure to immortalise his name, 
had he bequeathed no other memorials of his intellect, realising as th^ do, 
almost to the letter, the praise of Proclusf in his dissertation on Plato, 
lUrSv n»inri»nt t^t hm>M/*ir»ur»f, the lineaments of poetry in aU their lustre t As 
a scholar he was perhaps the most universal of his time, no subject being un- 
known to him, or beyond the reach of his reading ; fkr more various in his 
learning than Voltaire, far more profound and elegant than Johnson ; rivalled, 
perhaps, only by Peter Bayle, or that erudite old man, James Roche of Cork, 
whose wonderful memory and riches of scholarship, now comparatively unknown, 
will be the delight of some future time. As a political writer he was once pro- 
nounced, by no mean authority, to be ''the greatest in the world," and 
although perfection in that attainment is scarcely worth the ambition of a lofty 
mind, it would be hard to name any other author of the present time, except 
Sydney Smith, who was at once so witty, so philosophical, so elegant and eam^ 
in political discourses. 

As a conversationist he was known for the liveliness of his fancy, the diversity 
of his anecdotes, the richness and felicity of his illustrations, the depth and 
shrewdness of his truths, the readiness of his repartee, and the utter absence of 
any thing like dictation to those who came to listen and be instructed ; idem 
Icetus et prcesenSi jucundxis et gravis turn copia, turn hremtate ndrabiUs.X Lastly, as 
a man, he possessed the most child-like gentleness and simplicity, the greatest 
modesty, the warmest heart, the most benevolent hand, with the most scanty 
means. From faults he was not free, from wild irregularities he was not 
exempt. But great genius is seldom perfect ; its excesses must be forgiven 
when they are counterbalanced by fine qualities. "Sianmienim,*' says Quintilian, 
*'stmt homines tantum" The rock upon which Steel and Burns split, the sole blot 
upon Addison, the only stigma upon Charles Lamb, that which exiled Fox from the 
cabinet of England, and reduced Sheridan to poverty and shame, was the ruin 
too of the late William Maginn. But let us draw over it the veil of charity, 
and remember that he was a man. Let us remember also that he had the mis- 
fortune to render applicable to him the bitterest part of the Epigram of Phil- 
lipides, l&tf^mtymaU ly^#.J 

Originality, the distinctive attribute of genius, he possessed in no ordinary 
degree ; and whether we examine his criticisms or his maxims, gprave or gay, 
his translations or his son^, his tales or his humorous com^sitions, we shall 
find that to no one preceding writer is he much indebted for his mode of thought 
and style. He resembles Arbtophanes, or Lucian, or Rabelais, more perhiq>s 
than any modem author ; he has the same keen and delicate raillery, the 
withering sarcasm, the strange and humorous incident, the quaint learning, 
the bitter scorn of quackery and imposture, the grave and laughable irony, the 
profound and condensed philosophy of this illustrious triad ; but the grossness 
and obscenity, the loose and depraved sentiments, the utter defiance of modeiBty 

* Dissert on the lUXmm, (p. 403.) " Lineaments*' is scarcely a true translation, 
of tgif , but it comes nearest to our meaning. 

IQaintil.lib. X. c.i. 
We insert the entire here. Unfortunately the sole-redeeming ouality, money, 
with which the sly old Greek consoles his friend, was not to be found in poor Ma- 
ginn's case. 

Digitized by LnOOQ IC 

18440 Wittiam Maginn, LLJ). 75 

and deeoruniy which their ordinary imitators substitute for wit and wisdom> be, 
does not possess in the slightest degree. Nothing can be more sly than his 
satire — nothings when he wishes it^ more terrific or more scathing ; but it is 
always clothed in the robe of decency, and does not ever disgust. Even Swift 
has not equalled him in sarcasm^ though in the power of irony he may be en- 
titled to more praise, as haying preceded Maginn. Read any subject on which 
the Doctor has written, and auerwards examme how it is treated by other men ; 
then will be seen the superiority of his intellect. For although his view of it 
be different from that of any other person — an eccentric or a satirical one for 
instance — ^he still clothes it with such new light, he illuminates it so brilliantly 
from the golden lamp of his own intellect, and displays withal such admirable 
common sense in all he says, that the reader will derive from his odd, hasty, but 
masterly delineations, a more perfect idea of the matter in question, than from 
the most profound and laboured, and even learned disquisitions of others. As 
instances of this quality, may be cited his famous Essay on Dr. Farmer's 
Learning of ShakspearCt and his still more famous papers on Sou they 's strange 
performance. The Doctor. Contrast either of these with any other compo- 
sitions on the same theme, and then indeed you will be convinced of what we 
have advanced. For his refutation of Farmer's Essay, which in most peoples' 
hands would be little better than a dry piece of criticism and archseological 
investigation, is as enchanting as a romance ; and his Essay on The Doctor dis- 
plays more learning, more fun, more philosophy, and more beauty, in a small 
compass, than the Laureate's five volumes : — 

** Duplex libelli dos est quod risum movet, 
£t quod prudent! vitam consilio monet." — Phjebrus. 

So that if ever any man after Rousseau was entitled to Sir William Jones's 
e\emat smnmary of that fine genius, << whose pen, formed to elucidate all the arts, 
had the property of spreading light before it on the darkest subject, as if he had 
written with ohosphorus on the sides of a cavern,*** most assuredly that man 
was William Maginn. 

As a scholar he has been compared to Person, but, extensive as were his acquire- 
ments and deep his knowledge of the dead languages, he did not equal, or indeed 
approach, that renowned critic. Neither could he have hoped to do so, without 
devoting a life to the study and his whole heart to the single object — a thin^, it 
need not be added, to be expected from any man in the world sooner than Magmn ; 
for his ffenius was too noble, his mind too volatile, to chain itself down to such 
miseralne drudgery ; and the most dazzling prospects would scarcely have kept 
htm steady in one pursuit for a twelvemonth. But few men, apart from those 
who are cloistered from year to year in the learned solitude of colleges, 
and whose especial profession is scholastic literature, possessed a more deeply- 
founded acqu2untance with the standard writers of Greece and Rome, or a more 
extensive knowledge of the best authors in the modern continental laneuages ; 
and this wealth of erudition it was which enabled him so beautifully to decorate 
those papers which he composed the quickest, and make them, in the words of 
Thucydides,f Kni^ow* U i«i /*SxXtf» H atymfiffutra \f W frm^axfi*ttt axwut — ** trea- 
anres for all posterity, rather than exercises for present and temporary perusal." 
His fine knowledge of the Greek is best demonstrated by his admirable and 
witty translations from Lucian and his Homeric Ballads, which for antique 

Snity and faithfulness are unsurpassed by any versions in our lan^age, and 
1 carry his name down to all time with that of Pope ; the one bemg like a 
sculptor who relies solely on the simple and unstudied grandeur of the naked 
figure ; the other resembling a statuary who enchants every eye by the gorgeous 
draper V in which he invests the marble, and the picturesque adiuncts with 
which he surrounds it. Both are entirely distinct, and both inimitable in their 
way. One is a translation — ^the other a paraphrase. Those who wish to know 
what and haw Homer wrote, must read Maginn— those who seek to be delighted 

On tbe.musical modes of the Hindoos. f Thucydldes, A. »y 50. 

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76 Our Portrait GaUery. [Jan. 

with the lUad, must peruse Pope. The first may be illustrated by the Par- 
thenon of Athens, a model of severe beauty, standing alone upon its classic hill, 
amid the wild olives, and under the crystal skies of Hellas; the second by the 
Church of St. Peter's at Rome, where every extraneous ornament of price or 
brilliancy — painting, sculpture, cameos of gems and gold, perfume and stately 
arras — is added (to give lustre to the temple. No one but a scholar could have 
completed the former — Pope was able to accomplish the latter. 

Of Latin translations we do not know that he has left any specimens 
except some humorous paraphrases of the Odes of Horace, in the style of 
Swift and Pope ; but he has composed several songs in that language, on the 
humour and excellence of which we need not dilate, as we mean to offer one 
or two examples before we close. He was versed in Hebrew, he was a master 
of Italian, French, and German ; and so well acquainted was he with the 
leading writers of these countries, that he could tell you in a moment, and with 
unerring correctness, the characteristics for which each was distingiushed. He 
was more attached to scholia and scholiasts than might have been expected, and 
was a most excellent judee of meters. We never found him wrong but once, 
and our discussions with him on subjects of classic lore were neither short nor 
unfrequent. He possessed an almost inexhaustible fund of quotation from old 
writers ; but of late years, when his fame and reputation for knowledge were 
fully established, he drew upon it sparingly; yet the allusions in which he indulg^, 
as if inadvertently, betray the wonderful research of his studies, and render his 
works worthy of the praise which Fabricius passed upon the Bihliotheca of Photius. 
Non liber, sedinsigrds thesaurus — *'not a book, but an immortal treasury." 

His poetical compositions are of the sparkling order of Swift, and possess 
much of the sprightltness of Lafontaine, without any of the immodesty which 
tarnishes it. No writing did he ever publish which might make a mother curse 
his memory for the errors of her child, or husband attribute to him the destruc- 
tion of a once virtuous wife. All his songs are modest and decorous, flashing 
with radiant fun, insphering, as it were, the very spirit of jest and humour ; 
and though many are marked by that vein of exquisite libel in which the 
Dean of St. Patrick's so gloriously shone, we believe the very first to laugh 
at their prodigality of wit would be the persons who are themselves made 
the objects of his arrows. But he has occasionally written in a higher spirit, 
and for grander ends ; and several of his more serious lyrics are worthy of a 
Tyrtaeus, or Burns, or Proctor, the greatest of all living song writCTS. . To one 
of these we may refer; it is entitled ** The Soldier Boy," and runs as follows : — 

" I give my soldier-boy a blade. 

In fair Damascus fashioned well ; 
Who first the glittering falchion swayed, 

Who first beneath its fury fell, 
I know not, but I hope to know 

That for no mean or hireling trade, 
To guard no feeling base or low, 

I give my soldier-boy a blade. 

Cool, caim, and clear, the lucid flood 

In which its tempering work was done, 
As calm, as clear, as cool of mood, 

6e thou whene'er it sees the sun ; 
For country's claim, at honour's call. 

For outraged friend, insulted maid. 
At mercy's voice to bid it fall, 

I give my soldier-boy a blade. 

The eye which marked its peerless ed^e, 

The hand that weighed its balanced poise. 
Anvil and pincers, forge and wedge, 

Are ^one with all their flame and noise — 
And still the gleaming sword remains ; 
So, when in dust I low am laid, ^ 

Remember, by those heart-felt strains, 
I gave my soldier-boy a blade." 

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1844.] No. XXXIV^Wittiam Maginn, LLJ>. 77 

Perhaps the English language does not contain any thing more terse or no- 
ble : it is worth a hundred Irish melodies^ and a thousand Oriental Romances. To 
this maj be added his third part of Christahel, which is a more spirited and weird- 
like conclusion than the authorhimself might have drawn, and perhaps it was a 
consciousness that he could not exceed this finale of the Doctor, which prevented 
Coleridge from attempting the completion. As a parodist he was inimitable — 
perhaps the greatest that ever lived. 

His manners, devoid of all affectation, simple and unstudied, were singularly 
engaging. No robe of reserve did he draw round him, like too many men of 
celebrity, whose silence is perhaps the best safeguard of their fame. None of 
these absurd misanthropic monkev airs, which almost established the reputation 
of Byron, and certainly veiled the poverty of his mind, did he ever display. 
He maintained a certain boyishness of heart and character to the very last, and 
though his knowledge of mankind was extensive and accurate, he could be as 
easily deceived, as if he wore only a raw youth. There was a snowy candour 
in his manner, which lent a perfect charm to all he said and did, and the most 
unlettered person felt as much at ease in his company as the most learned. He 
was, indeed, as Burke said of Fox, " a man made to be loved ;" and seldom 
has any one passed through such a life as his, without leaving foes to his 
memory, and enemies to his fame. The real character of the man, so different 
from the fanciful pictures drawn of him by those who had never seen him, often 
led people into amusing mistakes, at which Maginn himself was the first to 
laugh. Well does the writer of this notice recollect the feelings with which 
he first wended to the residence of his late friend. He was then but a mere boy, 
fresh from the university, (thee, dear old Trinity College !) with scarcely any 
knowledge of the world, but with a plentiful store of notions about men and 
books, which were as inaccurate as those of George Primrose, when he set out 
on his expedition after fame and wealth, and travelled to London in search of a 
patron. He had received, from a relative of the doctor, a note of introduction, 
which he sent with no imthrobbing heart to the celebrated man. In a day or 
two after, Maginn called at his chambers in the Temple, but the writer was, 
unluckily, absent on one of those boating excursions on the silver Thames, 
which he preferred, at that time, to all the enchantments of Coke and Black- 
stone. He, however, sent a brief note to the doctor, stating that he would 
risit him on such a day. He went, and was shown up stairs ; the doctor was 
not at home, but was momentarily expected. Many a dreadful picture of the 
literary lion did he form. He imagined to himself, a tall, reserved, pedantic- 
looking man, with the grimness of an Irish fire-eater about him, a cold and 
grave eye, a stoical demeanour, and an artificial stiffness, such as we see in 
the pictures of those erudite critics, the Scaligers, or Barthius, or Erasmus. 
He almost feared to remain, so apprehensive was he of the scathing glance with 
which he was persuaded Maginn would look through his very soul. He won- 
dered what he should say, or how look, in the presence of the celebrated Sir 
Morgan 0*Doherty, whose prowess was acknowledged, not only in the highest 
walks of literature, but also in the field of honour and of blood. Suddenly, 
when his heart almost sunk within him, a light step was heard ascending the 
stairs — it could not be a man*s foot — no, it was too delicate for that — it must, 
certainly, be the nursery-maid. The step was arrested at the door, a brief 
interval, and Maginn entered. The spell vanished like lightning, and the 
Tiaitor took heart in a moment. No formal-looking personage, in customary 
suit of solemn black, stood before him — but a slight, boyish, careless figure, 
with a blue eye, the mildest ever seen — hair, not exactly white, but of a sunned 
snow colour — an easy, familiar smile — and a countenance, that you would be 
more inclined to laugh with, than feel terror from. He bounded across the 
room, with a most unscholar-like eagerness, and warmly welcomed the visitor, 
asking him a thousand questions, and putting him at ease with himself in a 
moment. Then, taking his arm, both sallied forth into the street, where, for 
a long time, the visitor was in doubt whether it was Maginn, to whom he was 
really talking, as familiarly as if he were his brother — or whether the whole 
was a dream. And such, indeed, was the impression generally made on the 
minds of all strangers — but, as in the present case, it was dispelled instantly 
the liviog original appeared. Then was to be seen the kindness and gentleness 

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16 Our PoriraU Gallery. [Jan. 

of heart which tinged every word and gesture with sweetness ; the soaTity and 
mildness^ so strongly the reverse of what was to he expected from the most 
galling satirist of the day ; the openness of sonl and coantenance, that disarmed 
even the bitterest of his opponents ; the utter absence of any thing like preju- 
dice or bigotnr from hun, the ablest and most devoted champion of the church 
and state. No pedantry in his Unguage — no stateliness of style — no forced 
metaphors — no mappropriate anecdote — no overweening confidence ; all easy^ 
simple, agreeable, and unzoned. Those who had the heaeBt of his society, 
know that the likeness here presented is faithful, and limned with truth ; but, 
to those who must take the true character of Maginn from others, and not from 
their own observation — his towering genius and eenial heart — but who still 
admire him, even though the image be but faint — it must only be said, in the 
words of iEschines to the Rhodians, when they were enraptured by the mere 
perusal of one of the speeches of Demosthenes, *' Quid si ipsum oiuKissetisf* 
His conversation was an outpouring of the gorgeous stores wherewith his 
mind was laden, and flowed on, like the storied Pactolus, all golden. Whether 
the subject was grave or gay, lively or severe — profound, or merely elegant — 
he infused into it such ambrosial ichor — he sprinkled it with such sun-bright 
wit, as if the Muse of Comedy stood invisibly by, and whispered into his ear- 
he illumined it with so raanv ivis-Iike beams of learning, originality, wisdom, 
and poetry, that to listen to him was like the case of one who is spell-bound 
by an enchanter. And yet, all was so artless, so simple, so unconcernedly 
delivered, that it evidently required no effort of mind to enable him thus to 
flash forth — but that which you beheld was the ordinary lustre of his under- 
standing. Many a happv hour has the writer of this sketch listened to Ma^nn, 
as with head leaning back in a huge arm-chair, and eye lighted up beneath his 
eloquent forehead and white flowing hair, he spoke the words of brightness 
and wisdom— 

" Qoidquid com^ loquens, et omnia dulcia dicens.** — Cic ad Lxdon. 

recapitulating the many anecdotes of Scott and Hogg, and Coleridge and 
Hook, with which his memory was thickly enamelled ; now beaming forth with 
some witty anecdote, anon with some noble and philosophic saying ; and yet 
never for a moment exhibiting, either by manner, or look, or tone, the con- 
sciousness of superiority to other men, but listening with respectful attention to 
what even boys advanced ; the first to hail their remarks with greeting, when 
they glittered with either sense or humour ; most willing to suggest, but never 
presuming to criticise, or to correct So that the writer may say of Maginn, as 
the truly divine Plato said of Socrates : *Ef IfiM mvm it nx*» '^''* xiymt jS^^c^sT mu 
ffMt fth ivf^m rm Axxm itntvut* — << The echo of his words still resounds like 
music in my ears, and renders me deaf to the melody of other men's conversa- 
tion.** Far unlike the tedious lectures of Coleridge, or the self-sufficient dicta- 
tions of Johnson, were the conversations of Maginn. Nothing did he ever say 
for effect, but all for truth, or to give pleasure ; for to delight and to profit. — 
delectare et prodesse, appeared to be tiie leading motto of his mind, and he 
had so profound a contempt for any thing like display, that he shunned talk, 
when he perceived that it was started for the purpose of drawing forth the 
loveliness of his discourse. It was not to every one that he opened the portals 
of his mind ; not to mere chance visitors did he reveal his glories. But imme- 
diately he did begin, he proved to even the dullest, that no ordinary man 
was present ; he arrested profound attention by his gesture and his earnestness ; 
he charmed every one by his modesty and simplicity ; he burst forth, the planet 
of the assembly, and, like the morning star of the poet, scattered light profusely 
around him:— 

'* Qnalis ubi oceani perfusns Lucifer unda, 
Qaem Venus ante alios astrorum diligit ignes, 
Extnlit OS sacrum coelo, tenebrasque resolvit.*'— ^fietc^ viiL 569. 

Crito in fine. 

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1844.] No. XXXIV^WiUiam Maginn, LL.D. 79 

When the elegant Aristophanes sought to express, hy metaphor, the raptore 
with which he listened to one of the most eloquent speakers of old, he declared 
to him that he had spoken roses, ^«^ fit* u^nxmt. Perhaps this image was in- 
tended to apply to t|)e ornament of his language, and its outward blossomings, 
rather than to the depth and real value, which, after all, is the truest and best 
test of conversation. But the words of Maginn were of a higher mould, of a 
richer texture, of a greater worth ; for all he said was distinguished more for 
valae than for tinsel, and he thought with Bui*ke, that the real jewel of convert 
sation is its tendency to the useful, and carelessness of the gaudy. And we do 
not know any other famous conversationist, to whom the beautiful passage, in 
which Wilberforce alludes to Burke's discourse, applies with more perfect 
justness : " Like the fated object of the fairy's favours, whenever he opened his 
mouth, pearls and diamonds dropped from him." Alas, that we shall listen to 
him never, never again 1 

His habits of composition were such as only would suit a man of real mind» 
ftnd that a granary of thought and learning. For he wrote with rapidity, 
never pausing over his paper for words or ideas — never resorting to those 
thought-provoking scratches of the head, in doing which Hogarth (the Fielding 
of the pencil) has depicted his poor poet ; seldom revising or altering what he 
had once penned, but finishing the subject in an off-hand way, and with a 
^UgetUia non ingrata,* infinitely more pleasing than belongs to the most 
elaborate and polished style. Not of him, inde ed, cou ld be said, as it was by 
Pythias of Demosthenesf — tXXux^tm il^ttf mur§u r« UiufAnfitmv» — that his discourses 
smelled of the lamp. We doubt if he ever transcribed a paper, in his life, from 
the original rough copy : and Gibbon could not have boasted with more truth, 
that to his printer were committed the first and only manuscript sheets of his 
hbtory, than could Maginn, that he never copied the rude draughts of his 
works. Occasionally, he would sit back in his chair, in the middle of a 
sentence, and tell a humorous story to whoever was near him, (for he seldom 
wrote, except in company, and generally with all kinds of noises about him)-^ 
or commence a criticism on whatever book lay within his reach, or discuss 
some topic of ihe day ; but his mind was evidently at work on the subject of 
liis paper, and he would break off suddenly from his talk, resuming his pen» 
and writing away with the greatest haste. Nor was his mind abstracted with 
his subject while composing, for he would often hold a conversation with some 
of his friends, while in the bosom of his task, as fluently, as wittily, and con- 
nectedly, as if he were only scribbling, or mechanically twirlmg his pen up and 
down. Reference to books he never needed ; and when he requu*ed a quota- 
tioo, prose or verse, he had it ready in his memory, without trouble or delay. 
Bat his writings, though struck off thus at a heat, lose little of beauty or ner* 
YOQsness thereby, but derive even a new charm from this characteristic— because 
they plainly appear to be the unstudied efforts of his genius ; and the merest 
reader will at once discover, that it is nature, not art, which speaks. Quin- 
ttliao, when criticising the philosophic works of Brutus, thinks it a high 
panegyric to say, <' Scias eum sentire qu<B dieiV — and to speak as he felt was the 
practice of Maginn; carried, perhaps, in some instances, to a fault. Yet, 
from his candour, much of his excellence was derived. The leaders which 
Ite wrote for the newspapers were usually finished in half an hour, or perhaps 
)^ ; but the masculine understanding that dictated them, the terseness and 
^hemence, darting, like sturdy oak trees, in every sentence, the sparks of 
^it, or the thrust of sarcasm — these give value to the article, and atone foe 
its baste. The writings on which he appears to have bestowed most care, were 
the Homeric Ballads ; and for the last few years, he was seldom without a copy 
of the Iliad and Odyssey, in his room, or on his bed. For those translations, 
indeed, he felt almost an enthusiasm — and always referred to them with satis- 
^wtion. As we have mentioned Homer, it may be added that he was a constant 
8kudeot of the Bible, and would pore over its sublime pages for hours. He 
preferred the Old Testament to the New, and was most partial to Isaiah, whom 
oe called one of the grandest of poets. 

• Cic. in Orat. 77. t ^^^' ^* <^*P- ^* 

Vol. XXIII.— No. 133. o 

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80 Our Portrait Gallery. [Jan. 

Such is a brief character of Maginn. Let us now follow it with a few 
anecdotes of his life. 

William Maginn was born in July, 1794, in Cork. His father was a school- 
master of some repute, and was the proprietor of an academy, in Marlborongb- 
street, in that city, which was then considered the principal one in the south of 
Ireland, and liberally patronized by the families of the county. The abilities of 
young Maginn displayed themselves at a very early age, and were so success- 
fVilly cultivated, that in his tenth year he was advanced enough to enter Trinity 
College, his tutor there being Dr. Kyle, aAerwards Provost of the university, 
and subsequently Bishop of Cork. In college he passed through the classes with 
distinction, gained several prizes and gave rich promise of his future years ; 
and was the reputed author of a poem, entitled " j^neas JEunuchus,** which 
caused no little excitement, by the eccentricity of its fancy, and the boldness of 
Its thoughts. Returning to Cork, he assisted for some time in the management 
of the school, and on his father's death, which took place, we believe, when 
Maginn was little more than twenty ; he took on himself the burthen of the 
entire establishment, and conducted it with singular success.- The degree of 
doctor of law was conferred on him in his twenty-fourth year, an unusuallj 
early period, and one which we believe is without parallel in Ireland. 

Cork was, at that time, in the dawning of that taste for literature, and 
scientific inquiry, which has since rendered it so celebrated, and conferred on 
it the name of the Athens of Ireland. A number of ingenuous young men had 
formed themselves into a society for the diffusion of knowledge, and of this 
club Maginn became a member, and soon distinguished himself above all the 
others for the depth and universality of his reading. To one of his satirical 
turn, the opportunity for exercising his wit, which the foibles of the various 
members presented to him, was too tempting to be overlooked — and accordingly 
we find him, at this early period, levelling his shafts at such of his associates as 
were the most prominent in absurdity, priggishness, or pretension — and flinging* 
about him epigrams and jests, as wildly and liberally on the small people of the 
beautiful city, as in after years on the chancellors and ministers of the British 
empire. But none of these trifles will beai' transcription. They are as 
ephemeral as the boobies who provoked them. 

The publication of Blackwood*s Magazine, which was commenced in 181 7« 
opened a field favourable to the display of Maginn's talents, and he lost no 
time in availing himself of so popular a medium for the insertion of his lucu- 
brations. In a communication with which we have been favoured by Dr. 
Moir of Musselburgh, the far-famed Delta, whose celebrity as a poet is not 
more widely difl\isea than his reputation as an amiable and good man, we find 
the following amid other interesting memoranda. ** Dr. Maginn commenced 
his correspondence with Mr. Blackwood in November, 1819, and his first con- 
tributions to the Magazine — his very extraordinary translation into Latin of the 
ballad of Chevy Chase — appeared in the number for that month. It was 
sent with a fictitious signature, as were also his other contributions to the sixth 
volume of that work, — *An Epistle to Thomas Campbell' — 'Ode to Mrs. Flana- 
gan by an Irish Gentleman' — and * Leslie versus Hebrew.* In the seventh 
volume of Blackwood appeared ' Luctus on the Death of Sir Daniel Donnelly' 
— the latter part of which from 'Letter from O'Doherty* — and comprehending 
the «Ode' by him, 'Letter from Seward,* 'Ulaloo Gol* — Greek and Latin— 
'Hebrew Dirge* — letter from Jennings with ' Dirge,* and from Dowden with 
•Song,' as well as ' Speech delivered at the Cork Institution,* I have always 
believed to be all written by him. To the same volume he contributed the 

Latin version of ' Fytte Second of Chevy Chase' — 'Ode to Marshal on his 

Return' — and I rather think 'Daniel O'Rourkel' Of the last I am not quite 

Positive, nor of the 'SemihoraB Biographicie.* (p. 610.) In volume eighth the 
)octor contributed 'Semihorse Biographical,* Nos. 2 and 3, and several parts 
of Daniel (if that was really his.) The ' Remarks on the present State of 
Ireland, (p. 190,) were also by him." 

To this list we believe we may add " Letter from Dr. Olinthus Petre." 
(p. 207.)—" Epistle from O'Doherty," (p. 536,) and " Extracts from a Lost 
(and found) Memorandum Book,** (p. 605,) in which there is an ironical remedy 

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1 844.] No. XXXIV^Wiltiam Magtnn, LLJO. 81 

for the Poor Laws, almost worthy of standing heside Swift's *^ Project far Bating 
iMldrefi.^ This remedy is no other than a decoction of cayenne pepper, which 
is administered to all craving mendicants in a bumper, by a rogue of a French 
cook, and has such an effect on them that they never again solicit alms or 
TictQAls at his door. The plan is put forth with inimitable gravity, and it is 
added that a patent for the invention is to be taken out by the French cook. 

In all these contributions there was a profustion of wit and learning whioh 
flashed on the public with a splendour to which they were unused. Scarcely 
QTi^ appeared in which there was not something libellous ; but the sting was so 
beautifully applied, and so mitigated by the surrounding fun, that it was difficult 
seriously to quarrel with the author ; and Mr. Blackwood seemed to take as 
strong a delight in publishing the sarcasms, as Maginn in writing them. The 
following extracts from Mr. Blackwood's Letters to the Doctor, in 1820, show 
how heartily the old man enjoyed a scourging article :-« 

Edinburgh, S3 November, 1R90l 

" Mt dkar Sib — It has been so far fortunate, that this month's has been kept 
back for the article on Captain Parry's Expedition, as it has enabled us to insert 
jtim admirable attack on rrofessor John, which you will see has not lost any of its 
points by the hands it has passed through. It was his doctrine and discoveries with 
r^^ard to freezing, and not heat, which Brewster's Journal proved to be stolen 
from the Philosophical Transactions, and therefore your notice of his book on heat 
was altered. The other alterations, I have no doubt, you will approve of, and, to 
add to the joke, O. P. is baptised Oiinthus Petre, D.D., of T.C.D. 

'* I fear that you will think that too great liberties have been taken with Holt's 
letter, but really we felt that they were necessary. I am sure you will not object 
to such a puppy charlatan as Brande being substituted for Tommy Thomson." 

It would seem from the following, that Barry Cornwall was not much in 
Blackwood's favour : — 

*' Nothing but your articles would have tempted us to notice, in any direct way, 
the beasts of John Scott's Magazine.' I have no doubt that they will have more 
attacks on this next number, their object undonbtedly being to tempt us to a war- 
fare, which might bring them into a little notoriety. I see, too, in this week's 
, Literary Gazette,' there is a miserable attempt made to attack us. Proctor, as I 
think I mentioned to you, is now one of Baldwin's set, and he is quite hand and 
glove with Jerdan, so that I have do doubt this Is from the same quarter, and 
preparatory to something that will appear in Baldwin's next number. Proctor 
nas received a great deal more praise in the magazine than he deserves, and I 
would not be sorry to see a little which would put him in his proper rank, as a 
person oi an elegant enough taste, but no very great strength or original powers, 
and more an imitator than an inventer. I saw a good deal of him tne two last 
times I was fn London, and I formed a very different idea of his talent from what I 
expected of the author of Dramatic Scenes" 

The Doctor had not at this time communicated his name to Blackwood, nor 
bad he, what is much more singular, demanded payment for his writings. The 
following extract will show that, whatever was the Doctor's delicacy, Black- 
wood, with his accustomed liberality, acted as became him : — 

*' I hope you will like this number of Maga. which I think one of our 
standard ones. I need not say how much it owes to you, and I cannot say how 
much / owe you for your most effectual assistance. Your contributions have now bee»< 
so numerous and so valuable, in the truest sense of the word, that I trust yon will allow 
me to return you some acknowledgment, for I cannot repay you for tho kind and 
valuable aid you have given me. If you will not accept money, I trust you will 
allow me to send you books, and you would do me a smgular fuvour if jou would 
send me a list of those that would be acceptable to you. It is very awkward of me 
to ask YOU to do this ; but ignorant as I am of what passes, or what you wouM 
most pnxe, I would not like to send you works you did not want, and I must there* 
fore b^ of you to send me a good long list."* 

* For a considerable time Dr. Maginn corresponded with Mr. Blackwood under 
the signature of B. T. S., and he gradually withdrew the incognito so far as to 

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82 Our Portrait Gallery. [Jan. 

In the ninth volume I4>peared the << Hymn to Christopher North*** some more 
cantos of <' Daniel 0*Rourke"~.<<A familiar Letter from the Adjutant*'— ''A 
Letter from Dr. Petre" — and " Bacchus or the Pirates," a Homeric hjmn, 
translated into the metre of Sir Walter Scott. '< In this month,** says Dr. 
Moir, *' Doctor Maginn appeared in Edinburgh in propria persona. From the 
following extract from a letter of Mr. Blackwood to me at that time, joa will 
see how nearly Dr. Maginn and I were in meeting.** 

'' I hare living with me just now, my celebrated Cork correspondent, who pum- 
melled Professor Leslie in such a grand style. He has come over onite on purpose 
to see me, and, till he introduced himself to me on Monday, I did not know his 
name, or any thing of him, except by his letters under an assumed signature 
like yourself. I wish now, my dear sir, you would also call on me, for I should 
rejoice exceedingly to have the pleasure of seeing you at my house with this very 
singular man, and some of my other friends, whom I am sure you would like to 
know. At the same time, I beg to assure you that, I would not for the world press 
this on you, unless you find it entirely accordant with your own views and wishes. 
I would not wish you to go the least out of your own way ; and so anxious am I 
that I should owe the pleasure of knowing you entirely to yourself, I have never 
since you expressed your feelings on this head, made the slightest inquiry either 
directly or indirectly." 

^' I have quoted the continuation of the paragraph," adds Dr. Jif oir, '' to show 
that at this time I was not personally acquainted with Mr. Blackwood, and also 
that from the admiration of Dr. Maginn's talents, which I had occasionally 
expressed in my letters to him, Mr. Blackwood held out the opportunity of mr 
then meeting the Doctor, as an additional temptation to my revealing myself. 
I was then very young — only twenty-two— and diffident to a degree, and it was 
not for a year after that time that I ventured a fiesh-and-blood presentation in 
the sanctum of Maga. 

'* I remember having afterwards been informed by Mr. Blackwood, that the 
Doctor arrived in Edinburgh on Sunday evening, and found his way out to 
Newington, where he then resided. It so hi^pened that the whole &mily had 
gone to the country a few days before, and in fact, the premises, except the front 
g^te, were locked up. This the Doctor managed, after vainly ringing and 
knocking, to open, and made a circuit of the building, peeping first into one 
window, and then another, where every thing look^ snug and comfortable, 
though tenantless. He took occasion afterwards to remark that no such tempta- 
tions were allowed to prowlers in Ireland. 

** On the forenoon of Monday he presented himself in Prince*s-8treet — at 
that time Mr. Blackwood's place of business — and formally asked for an inter- 
view with that gentleman. The Doctor was previously well aware that his 
quizzes on Dowden, Jennings, and Cody of Cork, (perfectly harmless as they 
were,) had produced a ferment in that quarter, which now exploded in sending 
fierce and fiery letters to the proprietor of the magazine, demanding the name 
of the writer, as he had received sundry notes from Mr. Blackwood, telling 
him the circumstances; and on Mr. Blackwood appearing, the stranger apprised 
him of his wish to have a private conversation with him, and this in the 
'Stroneest Irbh accent he could assume. 

*^ On being closetted together, Mr. Blackwood thought to himself, as Mr. 
Blackwood aiterwards informed me, — * Here at last is one of the wild Irishmen 
—and come for no good purpose, doubtless.* 

'< < You are Mr. Blackwood, I presume,' siud the stranger. 

** * I am,* answered that gentleman. « 

'*' I have rather an unpleasant business then with you,* he added, 'regarding 
some things which appeared in your magazine. They are so and so — wonla 
you be so kind as to give me the name of the author ?* 
* . - 

subscribe himself Ralph Tnckett Scott, and Mr. Blackwood sent him a cheque, 
payable to that gentleman. Dr. Maginn wrote a very humorous letter, quiszing 
Mr. B. for being gulled, and exaggerating the difficulty he had in getting the cheque 
cashed, with the endorsement of an imaginary person. 

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1844.] No. XXXI V^William Maginn, LLJ>. 83 

^ * That reqiiires consideration,* said Mr. Blackwood ; ' and I most first be 
satisfied that ' 

'< * Tour correspondent resides in Cork^ doesn*t he ? You need not make any 
mystery about that.' 

** * I decline at present," said Mr. B. ' giving any information on that head* 
before I know more of this business^of your purpose — and who you are.' 

<< * You are very shy, sir/ said the stranger ; < I thought you corresponded 
with Mr. Scott, of Cork,* mentioning the assumed name under which the doc- 
tor had hitherto communicated with the magazine. 

<< ' I b^ to decline giving any information on that subject,* was the response 
of Mr. Blackwood. 

** ' If you don't know him, then/ sputtered out the stranger \ 'perhaps — ^per- 
haps you could know your own handwriting,' at the same moment producing a 
packet of letters from his side pocket. * You need not deny your correspon- 
dence with that gentleman — I am that gentleman.' 

** Such was the whimsical introduction of Dr. Maginn to Mr. Blackwood; 
and after a cordial shake of the hand, and a hearty laugh, the pair were in a 
few minutes up to the elbows in friendship. The doctor remiuned at this tim^ 
in Edinbur^, at Mr. B.'s house, for several weeks ; and was introduced to 
Professor Wilson, Mr. Lockhart, R. P. Gillies, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Howison, 
and other prominent literary characters, as well as several leading and influen- 
tial members of the Scottish bar. The doctor remained in Edinburgh until the 
middle of July, when he returned home.'* 

The coronation, and the king's visit to Ireland, in 1821, seemed well worthy 
of commemoration in the pages of Blackwood ; and the publisher spared no 
exertions to make his numbers for August and September worthy of the occa- 
non. In the first-named of these months, we find him writing to Maginn 

*' I feel prodigious anxiety about mv next number ; it is so much consequence that 
it should he very good as well as very lively. I entreat of you, as the greatest favour 
you can ever do me, to make the utmost exertions that your limited leisure will permit 
you. It would have an admirable effect if you could send me an article full of the 
true loyal Irish feeling which is at present sweeping all before it in your Green Isle.- 
None but an Irishman can do this. At the same tmie, this is not to prevent there 
being plenty of the humorous and droll turn of communication, in the LwiiM» style, 
as you proposed. The ode and the song every one is delighted with ; and a great 
deal more of the some kind is expected in our next number. A writes me that he 
never almost read anything so good ; and Wilson and Hamilton were quite de- 
lighted with them." 

The ode and Song here alluded to appeared in the August number, (p. 94» 
vol. X.), and well deserve the laughter which they provoked. In the same 
volume is " Sylvanus Urban and Christopher North," ** Expostulation with 
Mr. Barker," ^^ AdnenJbu in Hibemiam Regis" "The Man in the Bell"— a 
paper worthy of Victor Hugo,—" Latin Prosody firom England," " Treason," 
••The Sixth Canto of Daniel O'Rourke," "Transhition of the Advenius,'* 
•* On the Scholastic Doctors," " Specimens of Free and Easy Translations,** 
" Ancient National Melodies," " Midsummer Night's Dream," " A Bitter Quiz 
on Lord Byron's Poem of Darkness," *' The Irish Melodies," " Remarks on 
Shelley's Adonais," with several other short papers, which, according to cus- 
tom, we do not think worth particularising, as to do so would swell this 
pu»er beyond all reasonable limits. In reference to two articles among the fore* 
gome, ot remarkable merit, we read the following observations in Mr. Black* 
wood's letters : — 

" On Saturday and yesterday I received all your parcels of the 8th, 9tb, and 
10th. Both your songs are capital ; and I weary excessively for the introduction 
which you are to premc Ciuptain Hamilton was like to die of laughing when he 
read them ; particularly St. ratrick. Any one but yourself, he says, would ma^ 
the melodies. We stand so much in need of them for this number, and they stand 
so little in need of any introduction, that I really must print them now ; and the 

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Our Portrait Oattery. 


notice of Tommy Moore will do as well with the next number at with this, should 
it not come in time. 

'* The Sixth Canto of Daniel is, I think, the very best we hare had. It will be 
a most nierous disappointment, likewise, to me, if I do not receive the Introduo* 
tion and Latin verses oy to-morrow evening's post. It is a happy thought to put 
the conclusion in Latin, as it would be a pity to lose it : and it will, besides, gratify 
so much all our learned friends." 

** In the following year appeared, among other papers^ in Blackwood, hU 
** Wine Bibber's Glory,'* of which, as a specimen of his Latbity, we insert & 
copy here, and when we say that it is fully equal to any thing that Vincent 
Bourne ever wrote, we do it only the justice to which its merits are entitled: — 


To a tune for Itself, lately disooTered in Hereou 
Uneum— beinff oa aocleni Roman air— or. If 
not, quite aa good. 

Com JoUiflcatione I>ot8teroti : i^ with boiater*as 

TuNa-<* The J0U7 Millar.** 

Quo me Baeche rapla toi 
Plenum f 


If Horatius Flaccus made jolly old 
So often his favourite theme ; 
If in him it was classic to praise his old 
And Falemian to gulp in a stream ; 
If FalstaflTs vagaries *bout Sack and 
Have pleased us again and again ; 
Shall we not make merry, on Port, 
Claret, or Sherry, 
Madeira, and sparkling Champagne ? 

Rrst Port, that potation preferred by 
our nation 
To all the small drink of the French ; 
'Tis the best standing liquor for layman 
or vicar, 
The army, the navy, the bench ; 
'Tis strong and substantial, believe me, 
no man shall 
Good Port from my dining-room send ; 
In your soup — after cheese — every way 
it will pldase. 
But most, t^te-li-t^te with a friend. 

Si Horatio Flacco de hilarl Bacdio 

Mos carmina esset cantare. 
Si Massica vina vocaret divina, 

Falernaque sciret potare ; 
Si nos iuvat mir^ Fsjstaffium audire 

Laudentum Hispanicum merum. 
Cor nostrum sit. lsBtum» ob Portum, 

Xerense, Campannm, Maderum. 

Est Portum potatio.quam Angllcanatio 

Vinis GalluB prtetulit lautis : — 
Sacerdote amatur — et laieis potatur 

Consultis, militibus, nautis. 
Si meum conclave hoc forte et suave 

Vitaverit, essem iniquus. 
Post casenm — ^in jure— placebit secm^ 

PrsBsertim cnm adsit amicus. 

Fair Sherry, Port's sister, for years they 
dismissed her 
To the kitchen to flavour the jellies — 
There long she was bauish'd, and well 
nigh had vanish 'd 
To comfort the kitchen maids* bellies ; 
Till his Majesty fixt, he thought Sherry 
when sixty 
Tears old Uke himself quite the thing ; 
^80 I think it but proper, to fill a t^ 
Of Snerry to drink to the king. 

Though your delicate Claret, by no 
means ffoes far, it 
Is famed for its exquisite flavour ; 
'Tis a nice provocation to tviss oonver- 
Queer blaraey, or harmless paUvev; 

Huio quamvis cognatum, Xerense dam- 
Gelat& cnlina tingebat, 
Vinum exul ibique duro coquo cuique 

Geuerosum liquorem pra»bebat. 
Sed a rcge probatum est vald^ pergra* 
Cum (ut ipse) sexagenarium-^ 
Larg^ ergo implendum, regique biboi- 
Opinor est nunc necessariuuL 

Claretum, oh 1 quamvis hand forte 
(deest nam vis) 
Divina sapore notatnr ; 
Hino dulcia diountnr — ^fiieeta naseim- 
Leuiterqne phlUof<^»his«lftr, 

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No. XXXIV^WiUiam Maginn, LLJ). 


'Tis tb« bond of society — ^no inebriety 
Follows a swig of the Blue ; 

One may drink a whole ocean, but ne'er 
feel commotion 
Or headache from Chateau Margouz. 

Socialis potatio ! te hand Aregit ratio 
Purpureo desoram colore 1 

Tui maximum mare liceret potare 
Sine mentis frontisve dolore. 


Etsi vero in prsesentl Claretum bibenti 

Videatur imprimis jucundum, 
Cito renter frigescat — quod ut stfttlm 

Vetu» vinum Mademm adenndom. 
Indos si navigftrit, vento corpus levftrit, 

Coliccamque fug&rit hoc mcrum ; 
Podii^r& cruciato '* Vinum optimum 

Clamant medici docti Mademm," 

Cainpanuml CampanumI quo gaudio 
Ocelli PerdricU sorberem I 
Ad dominaj oculum oxhauriam poculnm 

Tali philtro si unquam egerem — 
Propinarem divinam — sed peream si si« 
Nomen camm nt sic profanatur, 
£t si cum Bacchus urget, ad labia sur- 

Campano ad cor reroletur. 

Bat though Claret is pleasant, to taste 
for the present 
On the stomach it sometimes feels cold ; 
So to keep it all clever, and comfort 
your liver. 
Take a glass of Madeira that's old ; 
When 't has sailed for the Indies, a cure 
for all wind 'tis. 
And choUc 'twill put to the rout; 
All doctors declare a good glass of Ma- 
The best of all things for the gout. 

Then Champafi^el dear Champagne 1 
ah I how gladly 1 drain a 
Whole bottle of Ceil de Perdrix ; 
To the eye of my charmer, to make my 
love warmer. 
If cool that love ever could be. 
I could toast her for ever — but never, 
oh, never 
Would I her dear name so profane ; 
So, if e'er when I'm tipsy, it slips to my 
lips. I 
Wash it back to my heart with Cham- 

From this time until 1828, the doctor constantly contributed to "Black- 
wood," and the list of his works now lying before us is such as probably no 
other literary man in the empire conld have equalled. In the year 1823, he 
married ; and having given up his school, went to London, with the intention of 
seeking his fortune in the wide ocean of literature, dreaming, no doubt* like 
most youne men, of the golden isles of Atalantis, to be found in those 
watery wilds, and like them doomed to disappointment. His oelebrit/ soon 
procured him literary employment; and from Murray, "the Anax of book- 
sellers,** as Lord Byron called him, he received overtures for the composition of 
a life of that poet, who had just died. Nothing can more clearly show the 
hi^h opinion entertained by those best qualified to judge of his al)ilities than > 
this fact. A young man from an Irish provincial town, who had never written 
a book, and whose name was little known, entrusted with the biography of one 
of the greatest of Eoff land's poets, by one of the shrewdest booksellers that 
ever lived, is a spectacle not often seen, and Maginn used to speak of it with 
no little satisfaction. The papers and letters of his lordship were accordinprly 
placed in the doctor's hands, and remained in his possession for some time, but 
iH) fcteps were taken in the biograohy, and it was finally entrusted to Mr. Moore. 
It is fortunate for the memory or Lord Byron that Maginn did not write his 
life ; as, instead of the romantic fictions to which Mr. Moore has treated us, 
in which the author of Childe Harold is represented as a demi-god, or some- 
tbing just less, we should have a picture of the man, unvizored and unrobed, 
in ms true and natural colours ; his whole heart and life lud bare, as he 
himself wished them to be, and a record of a career more singular than even 
^ C(m/e$sians of Rousseau, and only less profligate than the Memoirs of De 
Faublas. In the papers submitted to the doctor, there were, as he assured us, 
in every page, proofs of the utter falseness and insincerity of his lordship, to 
an extent scarcely credible ; and he had gleaned besides, from the most 
^ttthentic toarcefl, such general information of the life and habits of the poet^ 
as to be better acquainted with his career than any other man in England* 

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S6 Our Portrait Gcillery. [Jan. 

** Although^*' said be> ** I never read the autobiography of which so mnch has 
been said, so much of it haA been repeated to me, that I know almost the entire 
of its contents. It contdned scarcely anything more than what we already 
know. The whole object seemed to be to puff himself and run down every 
body else. Moore's disinterestedness in burning the manuscript has been 
talked of absurdly. There never was such a humbug. Murray lost two thou- 
sand pounds by it." 

In the Nodes AmbrosioTue, No. XV. we find the doctor expressing his opi- 
nion of the papers thus : with a slight variation it is what we have often heard 
him say : — " One volume of his memoirs in short, consists of a dictionary of 
all his friends and acquaintances, alphabetically arranged, with proper deSfini- 
tions of their characters— criticisms on their works (when they had any) and 
generally a few specimens of their correspondence. To me this volume seemed 
on the whole the most amusing of the three. The fact is, that Byron never 
could versify, and that his memoirs and his private letters are the only thin^ 
of his that I have ever seen, that give me, in the least degree, the notion of a 
fine creature, enjoying the fall and unrestrained swing of his faculties. Hang 
it, if you had ever seen that attack of his on * Blackwood* — or, better still, 
that attack of his on Jeffrey, for puffing Johnny Keats — or, best of all, per- 
haps, that letter on Hobhouse — or that glorious, now I think of it, inimitable 
letter to Tom Moore, giving an account of the blow-up with Murray about the 
Don Juan concern — oh, dear, if you had seen these, you would never have 
thought of mentioning any rhymed thing of Byron's ; no, not even his Epi- 
grams on Sam Rogers, which are well worth five dozen Parasinas and Prisoners 
of Chillon." 

With these sentiments, which clearly show how little enthusiasm he felt for 
either his lordship or his poetry, the doctor recommended Murray to publish the 
letters entire with libels, sneers, satires, sarcasms, epigrams, confessions, and 
intrigues, unmutilated and unasterisked, and merely prefix to the work such in- 
formation as was absolutely indispensable. Had this been done, the world 
would now be in possession of the most extraordinary compilation that ever 
appeared ; but Murray got frightened — his great friends came about him, and 
advised, and wept, and entreated and implored ; and the task of drawing np 
the " Memoirs," taken from Maginn, was consigned to one who, having been a 
whig all his life, knew best what would please his employers, and expunged 
fdl those parts in which they were mercilessly shown up. In a moral point of 
view, perhaps, we have no reason to regret our loss. 

In 18'24, the Doctor having been appointed by Mr. Murray, foreign editor of 
" The Representative," a daily paper, then newly established, went to reside 
in Paris. That publication did not, however, flourish long, and on its 
death, the doctor returned to London, where, for a time, he earned a 
scanty livelihood, by writing for magazines, annuals, and newspapers. In 
the " Literary Souvenir " for 1829, appeared one of his most beautiful 
tales, " The City of the Demons." In the volume which preceded it, is ano- 
ther, entitled, " A Vision of Purgatory ;" and in the Fairy Legends of Mr. 
Crofton Croker, was the exquisitely humorous story of " Daniel O'Rourke,"* 
and three others, whose names we have forgotten. He contributed principally 
to the << John Bull," then in its glory, and had obtained so great a reputation as 
a political writer, that on the establishment of ** The Standard," by Mr. Bald- 
wm, he was appointed joint editor with Dr. Gifford. In the same year he pub- 
lished ** Whitehall,*' one of the most wild and extraordinary productions of the 
day ; overflowing with madcap wit and quaint learning, and containing sketches 
of all the leading characters of the time, froQi George lY., down to Jack 
Ketch the hangman. To the last-named ofiice, by an inimitable stroke of hu- 
mour, he appoints Mr. Ticrney, who, having come up to town with an earnest 
desire to be made prime minister, and having in vain solicited that or some 

• [We have seen a copy of ** Daniel O'Rourke," printed before either Crofton 
Croker or Dr. Mag^inn was bom» so our correspondent must be in error in attri- 
buting this composition to Maginn.~^Ep.] 

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1844.] No. XXXIV.— Wittiam Maginny LL^D. 87 

other place> finally^ in deepair* accepts the office of executioner^ and performs 
the last ceremonies of the law on Mr. Huskisson, who, he tells us, ** amid 
the acclamations of surrounding thousands, died easily and instantaneously." 
This work is yery rare> but it will well repay any one who takes the trouble 
of searchii^ for it through the old book-shops of London. 

This appears to have been a busy period of the doctor's life. From the inte- 
resting memoranda of Dr. Moir> we extract the following account of another 
work of fiction which has been lost : — ** Another thing of the doctor^ I re- 
member being particularly struck with ; and I am almost certain that it has 
nerer been published. I think it was written when he was in Paris, in connec- 
tion with * The Representative/ the newspaper which Mr. Murray started in 
London. You must, of course, be aware, that the doctor was the foreign edi- 
tor, and, it is siad, with a very handsome salary, during the short time that it 
continued to be published. The manuscript referred to was sent to Mr. 
Blackwood towards the end of 1827, as I find from the following extract from 
a letter to me: — .. ' ^-v, 

" I believe I mentioned to you that I had gofr's^d Vmapters of a yery^ queer work 
by Br. Maginn. He is such a singular person, £atr Iid^^^l^BJC^ if he m^U ever 
finish it ; and perhaps I shall have to return t^e mamiscnpt^ Vae of t^§e /lays. I 
should therefore be sorry you did not read it, a^ (^^cpdiFou'^t^i^l^ofejFhave got, 
with his contents of the intended chapters. HoW^dp ^^otr tfiii feLXhojr ^ould do for 
Maga^ should he not finish the book, and be willing to allow them to appear 
in it?** 

'* What answer I returned to these queries I do not now remember ; but 
have a distinct recollection of setting down the production as a very extraordi- 
nary one — full of power, originality, and interest. The scene was laid in Paris, 
and some of the scenes were very striking, more especially one, where an only 
and spoiled son, havmg dissipated his substance in all kinds of riotous living, 
and descended to all the meannesses of vice, has not yet the moral courage to 
reveal his lost condition to his doting parents, who resided in one of the pro- 
vinces, and who believed him to be an industrious and ardent student ; and at 
length throws himself into the Seine, his body being afterwards claimed by 
them at the Morgue. It would appear that I had kept the manuscript for some 
time, and that it had been mislaid, although afterwards recovered, as 1 find 
allosion to the subject in another letter from Mr. Blackwood : — 

" It is most fortunate that you discovered the doctor's chapters, and all in eood 
time. Some weeks ago he wrote me to return them, but in the hurry of one thing 
or another, Z neglected to do so. Last ni?ht I had another letter irom him, and 
intended to have sent it off this very day. 

In 1830, ** Fraser's Magazine*' was established, and with the foundation and 
chief management of that brilliant periodical, Maginn was most intimately 
connected. Some disagreement with Blackwood, we believe, led to the birth of 
this new and powerful rival, which soon attained a circulation the most ex- 
tensive and respectable of any of the London published periodicals. The 
first three or four numbers were almost entirely written by the doctor and 
his friend, Mr. Hugh Fraser, one of those clever, well-bred men of wit 
and honour about town, whom London produces in greater perfection and 
greater numbers than any other nietropolis in the world. The articles 
hebg completed, they both sallied forth with the manuscript in their pockets, 
uid proceeded down Regent-street, in search of a publisher. Passing No. 
215, the doctor said, ** Fraser I here is a namesake of yours — let us try 
him." They entered the shop — some bright star of fortune that presided over 
Mr. James Fraser, then conducting them. The terms were arranged, and thus 
vas hud the basis of " Fraser's Magazine.'* Many persons thought it was so 
called after the pubFisber. This was a mistake. Mr. James Fraser, so far from 
taking pride in the journal which bore his name, never permitted any one in his 
establiiiunent to call it '< Fraser's Magazine." In his books and correspondence, 
vHch we have seen, we find it always called ** The Town and Country," and it 

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86 Our Partraii Gallery. [Jan. 

WM after Mr. Hugh Fraser the Magazine was designated by the title by which 
it is known. 

A highly popular and delightful feature in this Magazine, was the OalUry of 
Literary Portraits — the letter-press for nearly all of which was written by 
Maginn. • These were entirely original in plan and execution, and created a 
sensation in literary circles, not often paralleled. The exquisite sketches by 
Maclise added not a little to their attraction. As a whole, they are, we think, 
the most original and sparkling of the doctor's productions ; and when we remem- 
ber that they were hit off at a moment's notice, we shall be easily able to fancy 
how meteoric was the intellect from which they emanated. Wit was their prin- 
cipal recommendation. ** This,*' as Sir William Jones said of Dunning, 
** relieved the weary, calmed the resentful, and animated the drowsy ; this drew 
smiles even from such as were the objects of it ; scattered flowers over a desert ; 
and, like sunbeams sparkling on a lake, gave vivacity to the dullest and least 
interesting theme.*' And we never read them, without involuntarily thinking 
we hear the doctor speak, for they are perfect resemblances of what his conver- 
sation was. 

Maginn was now in the zenith of his reputation and circumstances. He 
mixed in good society — was courted by lords and ladies of rank and fashion^ 
and moved in the glittering circle of (he aristocracy. By Lord Lowther, Lord 
Francis Egerton, Mr. Wilson Croker, and Lady Stepney, he was received with 
friendship and consideration ; and though he lived, bitterly to experience the truth 
of Dr. Burney's remark* — " what Pliny has said of the cinnamon tree, seems 
applicable to the great in general, corticis in quo mmma gratia — nothing but the 
mere outside is of value" — still the warmest of his admirers must admit, that their 
subsequent desertion of him may be attributed not a little to his own want of 
prudence. By Mr. Croker he is thus described in a letter, which we have bad 
an opportunity of seeing : — " On the few occasions of my having the pleasure of 
being in his society, his conversation was very lively and original — a singular 
mixture of classical erudition, and Irish fun. 'There was a good deal of wit, and 
still more of drollery, and certainly no deficiency of what is called conviviality 
and animal spirits. I remember on one occasion having heard from some 
common friend, that he seemed to be throwing away a gpreat deal of talent on 
ephemeral productions. I took the liberty of advi^ting him to direct his sreat 
powers to some more permanent objects, and he told me that he contemplated 
some serious work, I think on the Greek dramot but of this I am not quite 
sure. It might have been the Greek orators, I had a high opinion of his 
power to illustrate either." 

By our illustrious countryman, Maclise, he is thus described at the period 
of which we now write : — ** With every desire to do what you request^ I 
And myself embarassed in contributing the slightest memorandum of my ac- 
quaintance with the late Dr. Maginn. Does he not strike you to have been 
precisely the person, of whom it would be most difficult to convey (to one 
who had not known him) a true impression ? I cannot boast of having seen as 
much of the doctor, as I was ambitious of seeing ; for, although known to him 
from my first arrival in London, yet, whether from his own, and perhaps my 
active occupation, the usual separating tendencies and distractions of town, 
differences of pursuit, &c., our interviews were not after all so frequent as I 
could have wished ; and when we consider over how many years they were spread, 
any thing I could say of him must, of necessity, assume a tone of the highest 
panegyric, and I find it difficult to satisfy myself in the choice of any expression 
sufficiently powerful to convey my idea of his great abilities as a writer, and 
conversationist, and of his excellent nature as a man. He comes upon my 
general recollection always crowded round by the most pleasant associations, and 
I can conjure him up in particular situations. The morning walk of my early 
acquaintance, and more recently the morning visit, when I had but to Usten and 
be delighted. Indeed his various gifts and brilliant qualities were ever met with 
prompt acknowledgment, and where wit and wits abounded, ons always had the 

* Life of MetasUtio. 

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1844.] No. XXXIV.— Waiiam Maginn, LLJ). 89 

BatisTaeticm of seeinff him commanding attention." These were the rosy days 
of his existence. How full of stern philosophy do they appear, when we con- 
trast them with subsequent scenes, and find him, who, but a brief period before 
WIS a visitor in lordly palaces and drawing-rooms, pining away in the gloomy 
cells and garrets of the Fleet. 

Let us resume the thread of our narrative : — We have been favoured by our 
friend, Mr. Nickisson, the present proprietor of '^ Fraser," with a list of Maginn's 
contributions to that periodical ; but it is so extensive as to preclude the possi- 
bility of printing it. We shall, therefore, only notice a few of the most promi- 
nent papers, merely prembing that the doctor contributed to almost every 
Bomber of the Magazine from the commencement down to No. 133, one or two 
papers at an average. 

[n the 37th Number appeared the memorable satire of Lord Byron on his 
friend Sam Rogers ; and in the following month, Coleridge's Epitaph on his 
enemy, Sir James Mackintosh. Both these created much talk, and are among 
the most interesting literary curiosities we possess. The satire is the very best 
snd bitterest that has f4>peared since Swift, and fully corroborates the opinion 
which the octor expressed in the << Noctes AmbrosiansB," before quoted. '* I 
would give a trifle to have seen Sam's &ce the morning that satire was pub- 
lished," said Maginn. It is reported that Rogers attempted to buy up all the 
copies of the roa^^ne, but yielded to the advice of a friend, who remonstrated 
with him on the inutility of such a step. Of that great poet and his compo- 
sitions Doctor Maginn thought but little, and said that he owed much of his 
fu&e to a right appreciation of that glorious line — 

'* The road through the stomach's the way to the heart." 

'' I do not think Sam Rogers any great poet, notwithstanding all the puffs 
about him," said a friend, one day, to the doctor. 
^ That is," he replied, " because you never ate any of his dinners." 
The ** Fraser Papers " form the next feature of interest and importance in 
the magazine. Though written on subjects generally of a temporary nature, 
and every one of them hastily struck off in Fraser's back parlour, over such 
supplies of liquid as would totally incapacitate all other men from work, real- 
ising too often in Regent-street the picture which the classic poet of antiquity 
beheld in the rosy mornings of Ausonia : — 

*' Sic noctem patera, sic ducam carmine donee 
Injiciat radios in mea vina dies," 

Propbrt. iv. 6. 

the doctor and his associate in the task, Mr. C , (a writer of no mean 

ability,) have flung into the essays such radiant fun, blended with suc;i sound 
reasoning, that they seem destined to avoid the fate which overtakes most poli- 
tical writings, and has consigned those of Swift and Addison alreadv to 
oblivion. They do not, it is true, contain much of what is called << the philo- 
sophy of history ;" they do not aspire to such august thought as invests the 
ptinphlets of Burke, and will convey them in triumph down to ail posterity ; 
for such ends they were not designed or written ; but as speculations flung off 
to win some temporary advantage — to gall some political adversary, or cele- 
brate some triumph of party, they are inimitable, and are impregnated with as 
much of the true Rabelaisian fire as will keep them vigorous for ever. 

In the sixty-flrst number appeared one of his most admirable things, " The 
Praserians," which was soon followed by a paper in the sixty-fourth, entitled 
" April Fools,** into which, as in a net, by an advertisement in a newspaper 
from a sentimental young Indian lady, possessed of a fortune, and in want of a 
husband, he drew no less than eighteen fools, all of whom felt so extremely 
annous about the fair unknown as to produce no less than one hundred epistles, 
every one of which the doctor published. We believe Theodore Hook had 
somethbg to do with this hoax. It was certainly worthy of him. 

In the seventy-third number appeared the << Report on Fraser's Magazine," 
^a paper full of talent and learning, but tiresome from its great leng& ; and 
in the eightieth number his famous review of ** Berkeley Castle." This was 

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90 Our Portrait Gallery. ]]Jaiu 

written in Fraser's back parlour at the end of the month* when the whole party 
was heated with wine, ft was scribbled off, with his usual rapiditj, in about 
an hour, Maginn having never once taken his pen off the paper until he had 
concluded it ; and on its being handed by the publisher to Father Mahony* the 
latter said : — 

" Jemmy, you had better take care what you do — this seems libeUons.** 

Fraser looked at some of the passages to which the priest objected, but 
merely said : — 

« Pooh — we have printed worse ; — we are at the end of the months and it 
must go in." 

<* Very well/* was the stoical remark of the priest, and the paper was set up 
in type and published. The result is well-known. 

The conduct of Maginn, on being made acquainted with the assault on the 
publisher was honourable. He instantly forwarded a note to the Hon. Grantley 
Berkeley, apprising him that he was the author of the article. Shortly after- 
wards he received a card from Major Fancourt, M.P., on the part of Mr. 
Berkeley, in which it was stated that he was desirous to see him on particular 
business. The doctor immediately waited on Major Fancourt, and it was 
agreed between them — the doctor in the mean time procuring a second — that a 
hostile meeting should take place in the evening, at seven o'clock. The place 
appointed was a field in the New Barnet Road, and Mr. Hugh Fraser, his old 
friend, acted as the doctor's second. The parties were placed on the ground at 
a little before seven, and on the first exchange of shots Doctor Maginn fired 
rather high, which induced Major Fancourt to ask whether the doctor had 
done it designedly not to fire at hb antagonist. Mr. Hugh Fraser answered 
that he did not know. The pistols were a second time loaded and placed in the 
hands of the parties, who fired again without effect. The seconds here inter- 
fered, but vainly. A third exchange of shots then took place, Berkeley*8 bullet 
grazing the heel of Dr. Maginn's boot, and the doctor's bullet grazing the 
collar of his adversary's coat. The seconds again interfered, and the parties 
left the ground without any explanation, merely bowing to each other as they 
departed. Both behaved with the utmost coolness and deliberation, and not a 
word was spoken on the occasion, with the exception of the word of command* 
and the question of Major Fancourt with the answer. Warrants had been 
issued against the parties, but, as we have seen, ineffectually. 

We have now brought the doctor to the year 1837, when his difficulties 
began to assume a more formidable aspect than they had hitherto worn. Since 
his dismissal from the " Standard" his affairs had b^un to get involved, and 
the temporary and fluctuating engagements which he got on the ** True Sun," 
*' Ago," &c. &c., did but little to relieve him. 

But there was another external attraction which made home less agreeable ; 
and as this formed one of the most remarkable features of his life, it 
would be unpardonable in a biographer not to allude to it — we mean his 
supposed attachment to Miss Landon. Whatever were the terms on which 
he stood with that gifted and fascmating creature, certain it is that the 
strongest friendship subsisted between them, and we should not be wrong if 
we said, that at least one-fourth of those] poems which combine to form <' The 
Drawing-room Scrap-book," while that book was under the guidance of Miss 
Landon, was contributed by Doctor Maginn. We have been told by one who 
heard him read, and Haw him correct the proof-sheets of that work, that he 
made no secret to that person, at least, of having contributed much to the 
Scrap-book ; and he used to repeat those poems which he had given to the fair 
editress, laughing heartily all the time at the little hoax they were playing off 
upon the public. In more than one of the volumes there are poems with the 
doctor's name or initials — but this was done to lull suspicion. On Miss Lin- 
don's death Maginn was disconsolate, and almost lost his senses for two days. 

In 1334 the doctor had resumed his correspondence with Mr. Blackwood, and 
to the April number for that year, says Dr. Moir, <'he sent the exauisite 
* Story without a Tail,' which was followed, in May, by * Bob Burke's Duel with 
Ensign Brady,* almost equally good." Among his new contributions to Black- 
wood* Dr. Moir has omitted to notice his ** Tobias Correspondence/' which was 

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mi] No. XXXIK—WHUam Maginn, LL.D. 91 

writtoi in a little garret in Wych-street» in the Strand, where the doctor was 
hiding from the hlood-honnds of the law, and is full of the varied experience of his 
whole literary life. When a friend applied to him for some hints as to how he 
should write for newspapers, Maginn merely said, ** Read the Tohias Correspond 
dence, — ^there is the whole art and mystery of editing a newspaper.** Another, 
who said to him that he perceived it had heen attacked by the daily critics, received 
for answer, *' The reason is, every word of it is true, and my gentlemen of the 
press don't like that.''^ In 1837, also, were published his << Shakspeare Papers," 
consisting of some of the ablest and most beautiful dissertations on the charac- 
ters of our dramatist that adorn the language. They incline a little too much, 
perhaps, to paradox, but their great ability is universally admitted. Combined 
with his " Essay on Dr. Farmer,'* and sundry reviews and criticisms on Shak- 
q)eare, which have appeared in Fraser, they form a most valuable and inte- 
resting body of facts, surmises, and annotations on our ereat poet* In the 
ninety-sixth, ninety-seventh, and ninety-ninth numbers of Fraser was published 
that strange medley of wit and learning entitled " The Doctor." It was a re- 
Tiew of Sonthey's fantastical work, and the cleverest of any that appeared. 
No idea of it could be communicated. To be appreciated it should be read. 

In January, 1838, appeared the first of the " Homeric Ballads,** which were 
afUrwards continued until he had published sixteen. We had prepared a long 
criticism on this series, but we find we have no room to insert it. The last 
prose paper the doctor ever wrote was a "leader" for the " Age," in which he 
recommended summary execution on the Chartist demagogues — the last poetical 
essay was the sixteenth Homeric Hymn, the conclusion of which was dictated to 
the writer of this memoir from the death-bed of Maginn, In the same year 
(1838) he translated the " Comedies of Lucian." As translations they require 
no praise — ^but, notwithstanding their excellence, they did not form a popular 
feature in Fraser, and the publisher returned one or two to the doctor. 

From thb time until 1 840 the condition of Maginn was one of wretched- 
ness. Goldsmith's life, even in his worst days of poverty, could not have 
been more deplorable. He was arrested and thrown into gaol several times ; 
yet in all his misfortunes he retained his serenity of mind. The following 
sketches of him, in this last year, are transcribed from some letters written at 
that period: — 

"I have just returned from Dr. Maginn, and am quite delighted at my in- 
terriew with him. Here is a full and free narrative of it. On arriving at his 
residence I inquired for the doctor, and was informed that he was out. I was, 
however, requested to walk up stairs and wait, as he would presently be in. I 
did so. In a short time the doctor bolted in. I stood up and bowed. He 
shook hands with me. — Now for his description. He is about five feet nine 
inches in height, of a slender make ; his hair b very grey, and he has a gentle 
Uoop. He is qcute careless about his appearance — has a gav, good-humoured 
look, and is as simple in his nuinners as a child. He behaved to me with the 
nK>st perfect friendliness, just as if he and I were of the same age, and all our 
lives acquainted. He has a slight stutter, and is rather thick in his delivery. 
He is completely and perfectly an Irishman in every look, and word, and move- 
^oeoL Occasionally^ in the middle of a conversation he breaks into a tune, or 
horns an air of some sort. He is full of anecdote, and poss^es none of that 
dictatorial style which prevails with so many learned men, and renders their 
conversation and company tiresome. 

** So much for description. Now for a sketch of what he said. Afler some 
ordinary talk^ inquiries, &c., he asked me to spend the evening with him to- 
morrow, apologising at the same time for not asking me to dine, which he said 
he could not do, as his family are about to go to France, and the lodgings are 
inconvenient. I felt complimented, and said I should call at seven o'clock. 
Afler some further talk he retired to another room, and in about ten minutes 
came back. I was examining some books on the table, when he said : — 

" * Ah, I have no books out at present ; all mine are packed up,* and at the 
>sme time directed my attention to a side bookcase, where I saw Homer's Iliad 
>&d Odyssey, and Shakspeare in nineteen volumes, lying side by side. He then 
told me that he was preparing critical editions of both. 

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92 Our Pariraii GaUefy. [ Jatf; 

** I expressed my opinion of Shakspeare to him verj glowingly^ and pre- 
ferred him to Homer, adding : — 

** ' I was certain his edition would have a great sale, as Shakspeare was tba 
greatest man the world ever saw, greater even than Homer.* 

" To this he merely replied, ' Homer, too, was a master genius.' 

'' Seeing me take up my hat, he asked me whether I was going in the direc- 
tion of the Strand, I replied — 

" ' Yes/ 

** And he answered, * Well, I am going in the same direction.' 

** We then got into the street, when he took my arm, and we proceeded on- 
wards. He told me that he was to dine with Sheridan Knowles, on Friday ; 
and said that having once asked Knowles where he was horn and lived, in Cork, 
he told him — 

*** In the narrow passage, round hv the Exchange, leading from the North 
Main Street into the South, near Fishamhle-lane.' 

** He then hegan to criticise his works. He gave him great praise. He 
said that — 

*' ' Knowles*s real Irish hlunders often gave rise to little pleasantries among 
his friends. Like Goldsmith, all he says has a tinge of the ' bull.' Take two 
instances. There are two actors here who always play in the same line of cha^ 
racter — the melo-dramatic — and their names are constantly in the bilb assigned 
to the personation of brigands, bravos, pirates.. &c. &c., so that there is almost 
an identity between them in that respect. They are T. P. Cooke and 0. 
Smith. A friend was with Knowles when Smith entered the room— 
- ** * Do you know Mr. Smith ?' says he. 

" * No,* replies Knowles. They were introduced. Knowles sayt to Smith ; 

" * Mr. Smith, I feel great pleasure in being introduced to you. I often 
meet a namesake of yours — Mr. T. P. Cooke — pray, how is he ?* 

'< The other story the doctor told me he had ft*om Power, the actor. 
Knowles and Power were together. Knowles says :— 

*^ ^ Power, have you any commands for Ireland ? Fm just going over.' 

** Power replied : — 

«' ' No — but to what part are you going?' 

" ' Oh,* answers Sheridan, * / haven* t made up my mind yet,* 

'* * Think,' says the doctor, * of a man asking another for commandsy when he 
didn't know to what part he was going.' 

'' Another story he told me of Ude, the French cook. The soup was 
brought in ; Ude tasted it, and turning to the unfortunate oook, who was 
standing by, said : — 

" * Too salt — too salt 1 Ah, Rishard, Ri shard, / till put you under a course 
of phync until you recover the true taste of your palate J* 

** < God knows,' added the doctor, * I pitied the poor devil, who, I suppose, 
was calomelized until his livers and lights were driven out of him.* 

'^ I told him a story of Ude. He was the head cook of the Duke of York. 
When the duke died, Ude said : — 

** * Ah, my poor master — he mil miss me veray much where he is gone.* 

*' The doctor laughed heartily at this. He talked of FearpToa O'Connor, aad 
stated that he had just written a letter to him, condoling with him on the hor- 
rible treatment to which he is subjected in York Castle. We came on towards 
St. Giles* Church, and on passing it I casually remarked, that — 

'< < Now I knew where I was ; as before 1 was quite ignorant of what part of 
London I was in.' 

*' He asked me, ' Have you ever been in St Giles's, and seen the Irish ?' 

«« I said ' No.' 

<' ' What 1* he says, ' I am ashamed of you. You shan't be in London irtM- 
out visiting your countrymen.* 

'* He then turned about, and conducted me through every part of this cele- 
brated locale, pointing out its filthiest purlieus, and under-ground cellars. 

" < Look there,' said he, as he pointed out one of the latter, which was open. 
I looked in : there were heaps of potatoes and ail sorts of iilth lying about. 
' In that cellar, at least two hundred and fifty men, women, and children sleep 

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1844.] No. XXXIV,— WiUiam Maginny LLJ). $3 

vien night. The best way to give toq an idea of what St Giles's is, that in 
this little parish there is a double police force.' 
'< I expressed to him roj astonisDment at the scene I witnessed, and said : — 
** ^ I bad no notion that the first visit I should pay to St. Giles's would be 
with Doctor Maginn.* 
<< He laughed at this. I asked, him — 
« * Was it the worst part of London ?* 

** ' No/ said he, * Berroondsey is worse ; but we'll soon root it out altogether. 
By next year we hope to get rid of it :— it is a disgrace to London, and it is 
exactly in the centre of it.' 
" We tolked of London. 

*' ' It is,' said the doctor, * not a city, but what a Frenchman called it, pajf« 
dn miles, — a country of cities.* 

** He talked of going to the British Museum. I said I had seen the library 
« « What 1' he says, ' are you not free of it ?' 

*' I replied in the negative, but that I should have great pleasure in being so. 
He answered — 
** * Make your mind easy ; I shall do it for you in three hours.' 
<< He told me another story, about Dan O'Connell, with which I was much 
pleased. When he was placing his son Maurice under Doctor Sandes, his tutor, 
in Trinity College, Sandes asked him what be intended to make of Maurice ? 
D*n replied : — 

"'Sir, I intend to make him a barrister; it depends upon himself to become 
a lawyer,* 

"'This, you will see, is very smart and terse of Master Dan. Notwith- 
standing all the bitter songs, jests, epigprams, &c., which Maginn has written 
about the Liberator, he talks of him very favourably, and even with a liking. 
He said that he once called him ' that hoary-headed libeller. Doctor Maginn.' 
The doctor laughed a good deal at this reminiscence. 

'* One thing I like very much in the doctor, and that is, he appears the very 
tool of good-nature ; the least look at him will show this. Indeed he seems 
one of the best-natured men I ever saw. .... 
" I sat, on last Friday, two hours with Doctor Maginn in his bed-room. The 
doctor has been raking, I believe, since his family went to France : he was quite 
ill when I saw him. However, he managed to write a leader for the * Argus' 
newspaper, in his shirt, and that completed, he jumped into bed, and we 
had a long talk. The more I see of him, the more I admire his talent. He 
is really a splendid fellow. He knows every thing. He will teach you as much 
in one hour as the best book will in ten. His conversation is the most extra- 
ordinary thing possible. He jumbles together fun, philosophy, and polemics ; 
and in these (so incongruous) he is pre-eminent. At first you would say that 
he spent all his life reading jest-books ; but then there is such admirable philo- 
sophy and common-sense in his reflections, that you get rid of your first notion 
as quickly as possible. But just as you are on the point of averring that this 
nian reads nothing but works of thoaght and reasoning, you are forced to 
gulp down the exclamation, for he jumps into theology, and will argue on it 
like a bishop. Then you declare that he has studied nothing but polemics all 
his life. Such a roan is Maginn. He is a ruin, but a glorious ruin, never- 
theless. He takes no care of himself. Could he be induced to do so, he would 
he the first mAn of the day in literature, or any thing else. But he lives a 
K>llicking life ; and will write you one of his ablest articles while standing in 
his shirt, or sipping brandy — so naturally do the best and wittiest thoughts flow 
from his pen. His reading is immenve ; his memory powerful, and his know- 
ledge of the world is perhaps equal to that of any man that ever lived. In 
^*ct, I say he knows every thing, and so he does. We talked about a war with 
France, about which all the John and Jenny Bulls are getting anxious. The 
doctor asserted stoutly that there would be none, and quoted Lord Brougham, 
who said, in allusion to the national debt, that England was bound in eight 
hundred millions to keep the peace. 
*? He told me a story about a sermon preached during the last war with 

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94 Our Portrait Gallery. [Jan. 

France. The reverend preacher took for his text> Ezekiel xzxv. 3^ 4. ' Thus 
saith the Lord God^ Behold, O Mount Seir (a pun on the French monsieur) 1 
am against thee, and I will stretch out mine hand against thee, and I will make 
thee most desolate. I will lay thy cities waste, and thou shalt he desolate, and 
then thou shalt know that I am the Lord.' This text was well applied. 

** He told me another, which caused the preacher to be exalted in the chm'ch. 
James the First of England and Sixth of Scotland was very partial to puns of 
this kind. He was dso, as you know, a fickle, wavering weathercock, who 
scarcely knew his own mind a moment, and was therefore called by Sully, the 
g^eat minister of Henry the Fourth, 'the wisest fool in Christendom ;' for with 
all his folly he had both cunning and knowledge. The text, in allusion to him- 
self, was James first and sixth : — * For he that wavereth is like a wave of the 
sea, driven with the wind and tossed.' After this he read the following passage 
from the Bible, and said that it was the true style in which English composi- 
tion should be written. It is part of the dedication to the king :— 

'* Great and manifold were the blessings, most dread sovereign, which Al- 
mighty God, the Father of all Mercies, bestowed upon us, the people of 
England, when first he sent your majesty's royal person to rule and reign over 
us. For whereas it was the expectation of many, who wbhed not well to our 
Sion, that upon the setting of that bright occidental star. Queen Elizabeth, of 
most happy memory, some thick and palpable clouds of darkness would so hare 
overshadowed this land, that men should have been in doubt which way they 
were to walk, and that it should hardly be known who was to direct the unset- 
tled state ; the appearance of vour majesty, as of the sun in his strength, in- 
stantly dispelled those supposed and surmised mists, and gave unto all that 
were well-affected exceeding cause of comfort ; especially when we beheld the 
government established in your highness, and from the lawful seed of an 
undoubted title, and this also accompanied by peace and tranquillity at home 
and abroad.** 

** I was rather surprised to hear Maginn, whose own style of composition 
was directly the opposite to this, speak so highly of it. After this he com- 
menced a long discourse, in which he drew one of the most perfect parallels 
possible between the state of France and England, commencing with Louis the 
Fourteenth of France and Elizabeth of England, and drawing it down to the 
present time. It struck me very much. Never was so complete a parallel as 
that presented by the two countries. That of England ended with William 
the Third, to whom he likened Louis Philippe. It is impossible to describe 
this without entering into a long detail, but it appeared to me wonderfully clear 
and clever, and an admirable ground for an historical essay, if he would only 
set about it. But he is such a careless child of nature tluit he will never set 
about a long work. Shakspeare is a Kreat idol of hb. He is thinking of 
bringing out a new edition of his works, and he has read extensively and 
thought deeply on the subject, but I fear that laziness will get the better of 
him. In fact he is always running about town, and his most intimate friends 
have never seen him yet studying, and only very seldom composing. The sight 
I got of him at the latter was merely accidental." 

The custom of the doctor here alluded to, of commencing long dissertations 
on whatever subject was uppermost in his thoughts, was a favourite one with 
him. Nothing was more common than for him to narrate to whoever was with 
him some romantic story, or ballad, which he had just composed—some scenes 
of a novel that he hoped to finish — or some dissertation on Fielding, Rabelaisy 
or Lucian. He also practised the art of improvising, and succeeded in it. The 
ottava rifiuz, or stanza of Pulci and Lord Byron, was that to which he was 
most partial. Of contemplated works, which he used thus to recite in disjecta 
membra to his friends, was one on the subject of ''Jason," which promised well, 
and another was a tragedy entitled " Queen Anne." His notion of the queen 
was, that she should be introduced on the stage always in a state of melancholy* 
and lamenting the loss of her children — a notion which, however, would but 
badly accord with our historical knowledge of Brandy Nan. 

In the latter part of this year the doctor issued a prospectus of a work to be 
published weekly, in numbers* at three-pence* and to be entitled *' Magazine 

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1844.] No. XXXIV.— William Maginn, LLJ). 95 

MiscellameSy by Doctor Ma^nn.** This was intended to contain the flower of 
all his compositions in the different magazines to which he had contributed, and 
though well deserving of public support, proved a failure ; and it was for the 
expenses incurred by this publication that he was subsequently thrown into 
prison. He was now rapidly sinking in the world. He had an engagement on 
the ** Age/* at a few pounds a week, which barely supported him ; and his 
ooarrel with Fraser had entirely excluded him from the magazine until the 
death of that ^ntieman, in 1841, opened its pages once again to his contri- 
bations. An incident which occurred at Mr. Fraser*s fimeral deserves preser- 
vation. It was but rarely that Maginn was betrayed into any thing like ro- 
mance. The funeral took place at Bunhill Fields. As soon as the ceremony 
was over, the doctor said to the grave-digger ■•« 

** Grave-digger, show me the tomb of John Bunyan." 

The grave^ligger led the way, and was followed by Maginn, who appeared 
particularly thoughtful. As they approached the place, the doctor turned to 
the person who accompanied him, and tapping nim on the shoulder, said 
quietly— « Tread lightly." 

So unusual a remark, coming from one who never exhibited any particle of 
the pathetic, either in his manner or conversation, attracted the attention of 
bis companion. Maginn bent over the grave for some time in melancholy 
mood, and seemed unconscious of anv one*s presence. The bright sunshine 
poured around him. No more illustrious mourner ever stood beside that soU- 
tiiT grave. At length he seemed moved, and turning away exclaimed in deep 
aod solemn tones, '' Sleep on, thou Prince of Dreamers.** He little thought 
then that ere another twelvemonth should have rolled over his head, he, too» 
should be a dweller in the land of shadows. 

Iq the earl V part of the next year (1842) Maginn was thrown into prison. 
From Mr. Richard Oastler, ** the king of the labourer's question,*' and the able 
tnthor of the " Fleet Papers,*' we have received the following account of his 
sojourn there : — 

'* I wish I could comply with your request, and fbmish you with a few anecdotes 
respecting my lamented friend Dr. Magmn ; but I fear if 1 were to tell all I know, 
I should woimd the feelings of many of those who hold his memory dear. The 
doctor died a martyr to imprisonment for debt. 

** Our acquaintance commenced and ripened into friendship in a debtor's gaol — 
^here I witnessed the ravages which that murderous spirit of covetousness is al- 
lowed to satiate itself with, even when its victim is the brightest star of intelleo- 
tiial Heht — there I saw Maginn succumb to the powerful malice of a wretch to 
whom be was indebted a few pounds I 

** Certain and speedv death awaited him had he remained in prison — ^the horror 
of sabmitting to the degradation of the Insolvent Debtors' Court, which was the 
only avenue for his escape, preyed like a viper on his heart. Daily and nightly I 
witnessed Uie sad effects, as the day of liberation through that court approached. 

*' It required all the influence his family and friends could muster, to make him 
resolve thus to degrade and deliver himself. I ureed the situation of his children, 
and succeeded. Still, as the day approached, it blackened all his horison : — 

^ * It will kill me Oastler ; I shall never survive it,' he has often said. 

"He was liben^ed. The only remaining chance was a visit to a warmer c\U 
lute. I attempted, from the * party ' which owed so much to Dr. Maginn's pen, 
to obtam the small sum of thirty pounds, to enable him to cross the channeL The 
migratefal, nay the sordid and unfeeling Conservatives refused. Poor Maginn 
mimd on a few weeks and died 1 

" The Ust time I saw him was a short while before his death. He called at the 
Fleet,— he was skin and bone, — still his ei^e betokened love. He remained some 
tune b my celL I felt that I should see him no more. 'Twas there we first met;-^ 
there we parted. When again we meet, it will bo where malice will have lost its 
P<>^er— where charity is no longer needed. 

** Poor Maginn ! I never think of him but I am thankful that I was consigned 
to prifOQ — elM I never should have known him. 

" How often have we beguiled the weary prison-hours, and robbed them of their 

"He would tap at the door — look in — and if I was alone, he would enter, sit 
oowa, chat, read or write, just as our convenience requhred. 

VoL.XXIIL^No.J33. H 

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^6 Our Portrait Gallery. [Jaiu 

• << There he has' sat, telling me one of his embryo ' tales,'— oritidsing a book ; 
enlightening me on many most interesting and important matters ; in fact,jpoiiring 
from his rich stores of knowledge, streams of information for my use. Then he 
would refresh my memory and delight my imagmation on old English times, and 
describe what England was, what Englishmen were, before the * new lights * had 
darkened her honzon. 

** Often has he sat with me at this table ; he writing his ' leader,' and I my 
' Fleeter,' when we passed our slips for mutual examination. How seldom would 
he alter a word of mine. * You have your own * Oastlerian' style ; I oannot meod 
lU Perhaps you have repeated such a word too often ; so and so would be af 
well ;' and when, as it sometimes happened, I suggested the alteration of a word 
in his, he would instantly adopt it ; and residing the passage would lay strong em- 
phasis on that word ; aading, * I thank you, Oastler ; it's a great improyement.' 
I mention this to show his great humility. 1 am a mere babe m literature — be was 
a giant. 

*' When he was writing on questions peculiarly relating to the working daases, 
he would say, * Oastler, I want you to help me ; I want an article on your subject ; 
you are the *king of the labourer's question.' Then he would listen with sudi 
attention and humility, that I was literally ashamed when I remembered who km 

" But the most delightful times were, when he would say, 'where is your Bible?* 
and then request me to read the Epistle to the Hebrews, or Romans ; he would 
paraphrase as I read, and ask my opinion with such humility as his g^reat friend- 
ship for me could only account for. 

** Sometimes we would walk together in the dark Coffee Gallery, and then he 
would amuse me with an ideal romance. Thus did we spend our prison-hoars ; 
not, however, without many a time laughing at the worm which had used us so 

" About Maginn's talents it is not for me to judge. Of his disposition, las 
heart, none can judge better. 

*' He was kind and beneficent, sincere and grateful. He was affiectionate and 

sympathising : he was passionately attached to his children ; he felt . What 

Twas about to write would not be appreciated in this unvirtuous age; had the age 
been virtuous, the doctor's feelings would have been spared." 

What a deep moral is in all this ! How clearly does It show that sooner or 
later imprudence will meet with its reward. What Maginn might have been^ 
his writmgs will enable us to judge ; what he was^ the foregoing extract stri- 
kingly pourtrays. ^ 

Before we close the account of this period of his life, we think it advisable to in* 
sert here a few reminiscences which have been supplied to us by one who was k 
oonstant companion of the doctor, and knew his mind weU. They are but, it is true, 
a faint specimen of what his conversation was — but, in the absence of anecdotes 
relative to the doctor, we think they are not uninteresting — and they are cer- 
tainly just as readable, and as good as Swift and Pope's Thoughts on Variotu 
Subjects. We have added to them one or two recollections of our own, which 
we had not an opportunity to interweave with our memoranda as we proceeded. 


Talking one day about Hogg, whom be greatly admired, he said : " In his 
flimplioity consisted his excellence. Had he attempted anything great, he would 
have made himself ridiculous. He was every inch a man, fliill of fan and 
^ling, without the heaviness of Scott." 


The subject turning one evening upon Coleridge, I asked him whether hu 
conversational powers were as great as they were reported to be. He replied, 
^ I thought hfm tedious at times ; his discourse was a lecture ; there was not 
any of the 6ase of conversation about it. What he did say never failed to be 


Talking on one occasion about his '^Bhakspeare Papers,*' I asked him why 
he did not write the character of Hamlet ? << I have often thouffht of it»*' he 
said, '< but never could make up my mind to it. Fm c^cdd of nim." 


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1844.] NcXXXIV^WittiamMagimiyLLJ). 97 

The morniogs he spent reading Rabelaisy who was an especial favourite of 
bis. Once lajiog down the book, he said, *' I think the stories he tells here 
were repeated during the early part of his life to a set of jovial companions. 
Finding little to amuse him in his old age, he wrote them more for pleasure, 
than for fame. It is very strange, that, in a fiction such as his, all the autho- 
rities cited in the trial chapter are genuine and correct. I once took a great deal 
of pains to find them out, and with few exceptions, discovered them all, I think 
Shakspeare studied him much. The first scene in * the Tempest' proves it beyond 
a donbt. Friar John, I think, was a character that delighted him much, and 
one that Rabelais took the greatest pains with. There is no imitating Rabelais. 


Spiking of Macnish, the modem Pythagorean, and the flattering manner 
in which he had spoken of the doctor, he said, *< I was never in his company 
bat once, and then he got blind drunk." 


^ ^ Of all the Roman poets, Horace is the fellow for me. His reoommenda- 
fion is what generally spoils all other poets — the real common sense he displays 
in all his poems." 


*' Take the best novels of any of the living novelists of the day, and you 
will find that all their after works have the same traits of composition and plot 
as the first. There is not one that can be compared with Fielding or Smollett. 
Filling three volumes appears their principal object." 


After going with his family to see Sheridan Knowles* play of Virginius, I 
^ked him what he thought of it? " Very clever ; but it is not a Roman play. 
With all respect for Knowles, whom I like very much, I do not think he will 
ever be able to produce a classical play. The poetry is pretty, but there is 
nothing Shakspearian about it. I have a great contempt for most actors. 
There is something confident about them that I dislike. The decentest of the 
fbtcmity that I ever met with, is Knowles." 


I give a vote to every sane man, whose age exceeds one-and-twenty — ^but 
no ballot. 


There is something so like life about the inn-keepers of Fielding, that I 
never can sufficiently admire them. I suppose they formed no inconsiderable 
majority of his acqu<untance, and there is no doubt he was deep in the memory 
of some. 


The finest piece of orose-writing that ever I read is Dr. Johnson^s concluding 
pttagraph of the preface to his dictionary. 

• I think Shakspeare intended the Tempest to be nothing more than a grand 
pantomime, in which he could lay aside all rules of composition, and allow hi? 
imi^nation to revel at will, without-the fear of criticism ; inserting in it many 

rwhes and ideas that had long been floating in his fancy : and I think it was' 
last play he wrote. 


The reason why we know so little of Shakspeare is, that when his business 
was over at the tneatre, he did not mix with his fellow-actors, but stepped into 
his bo^ and rowed up to Whitehall, there to spend his time with the £arl ef 
Southampton, and the other gentlemen about th^. court. 

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98 Our Tortrait Gallery. [Jan. 


Whenever I have time^ I will write a paper on FalstafF's Page. Many a 
one like him have I met in my time^ in the snape of a printer's deviL He is 
the prince of all hoys. 


Once at a party> where Dr. Giffbrd and others were present^ somebody said 
it would be impossible to translate, in a couplet, the witty French lines written 
on the death of the Jansenist, Paris, in 1740-^at whose grave it was sap* 
posed miracles were performed. 

« De parle Roi — defense 4 Diea, 
De raire miracles en ce lien.* 

^* Pooh,** said the doctor, *' nothing is easier/' 

" God save the King — bat God shall not 
Work any miracles in this spot.*' 

There seems nothing very singular in this impromptu, but as it was reported 
to us as a very clever thing, by one of the cleverest persons we ever saw, we 
repeat it. We may add that, on mentioning it to Mr. James Roche, of Cork, 
without, at the same time, informing him of the version of Maginn, he burst 
out into an extempore translation, more literal than the doctor's — though the 
latter has introduce«l a smart point into his, which imulies the incompatibility 
of God saving the King, and working a miracle. The following is Mr. Roche'a 
version :— 

'* The King orduns that God shall not 
Work more miracles in this spot.*'] 

In the early part of 1642, Maginn was liberated from gaol. He had passed 
through the ordeal, from whose effects his spirits never again recoverea. " I 
will never again raise my head in society,'* said he. Alas, there was but little 
time left for him to do so. Disease now rapidly approached, and its effects on 
his frame ^ew every day more apparent* He was ordered to Reading, but his 
restless spirit could not find content away from London. He seemed now to 
have utterly lost all care of himself. He got di^usted with life : he beheld 
the ingratitude of his party. On more than one occasion, he expressed to the 
writer of this paper the bitterness with which he felt the desertion of the Torr 
party^-and the conviction that, had they before given him the situation of which 
be had long entertained hopes, he would not now be sinking rapidly into wretch* 
edness and death. This was, he told us, a diplomatic office of some kind in 
Vienna. Where now were his noble Ariends ? Where the lords, and ladies, 
and hollow praters, who once buzzed around him ? Many of them had often 
expended on a dinner, or a pic-nic, ten times as much as would have saved this 
brilliant ornament of literature from the misery of a gaol, and the degradation 
of insolvency. But they were not there to succour, when succour was needed. 
One only exception was found — one bright example, in Sir Robert Peel— that 
great and splendid minister, who, having taken glory for his ambition — and 
who, filled with that love of renown, which an old author tells us is the spur 
to lofty souls, {ptXtrifMt ym^ rmg XMfuw^mf fvrus vyu^u),* generously came forward, 
and did all he could to alleviate the dying moments of the poet, the critic, and 
the scholar. But this solitary instance does not, nevertheless, veil the imthank- 
fulness of Maginn's party — and they have given their enemies the consolatioOf 
of being enabled to parallel, by one example, at least, the death-bed of Maginn— 
that diigraceful blot, which ought for ever to disgrace the Whigs, and which 
we once hoped would stand alone — the death-bed of Sheridan. 

Towards the latter part of July, a letter reached us, hastily summoning us to 

Prsefat Philost. 

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J844.3 No. XXXIV.— William Magmn,LL.D. 99 

Waltofi^n- Thames, where the doctor then was, as he had expressed an ardent 
wish to see the writer. From the letters and memoranda written at that period, 
the foUowing extracts are made: — 

** 1 went down to Walton-on- Thames to see Dr. Maginn, about eighteen 
dajs before he died. I was prepared to find him infirm, but bj no means dan- 
gerously ill. When I was ushered up stairs, the first glance I gave towards 
aim did indeed surprise me. He was in bed, with a blue striped worsted shirt 
drawn tightly around him, and was supported by pillows. An old Greek 
Homer, on which he appeared to have been meditating, was on the bed by his 
side. He was quite emaciated and worn away ; his hands thin, and very fittle 
flesh on his face ; his eyes appeared brighter and larger than usual ; and his 
hair was wild and disordered. He stretched out his huid and saluted me. We 
talked on Seneca, Homer, Socrates, Christ, Plato, and Virgil. He said 
that in his ju^ment Hardinus had settled the question that Vireil did 
not write the ^neid ; and that Homer meant to represent himself in the 
eluKticter of Ulysses. We talked of Athenieus, ApoUonius Tyaneus, and 
Tiberius. He mentioned the latter with respect, as a man of supreme genius, 
the master-^nius of the Roman Emperors ; and remarked what a sagacious 
plan he had adopted to bring Christ and Christianity into contempt, by deifying 
the former, and putting him in the same category with Julius Csesar and him« 
self. Thb he regarded as a master-stroke of policy and cunning. We talked 
for two hours ; 1 then left the room and walk^ about Walton. When I re- 
turned, he was up and dressed, and l^ing on the sofa in the dining-room. He 
spoke little, and did not seem in spirits. We talked a good deal at dinner : he 
eontented himself with potatoes and butter, and partook of but a small quan- 
tity. After dinner he drank a glass of gin and water. About seven, I got up 
with the intention of returning home, but he pressed me to stay the night. I 
remained : he went to bed about nine o'clock. This was the last day he ever 
came down stairs or dressed. I felt the compliment that he paid me ; from 
Msginn it was a high one. The forenoon of the next day I spent entirely with 
him, and returned to town about two o'clock. 

« On these two occasions he told me that there was no money in the house ; 
that he was extremely anxious to get to town to have medical advice, as he could 
liot bring a physician down from London ; that he was quite lonesome in Wal- 
ton, havii^ no one to come and speak with him. He requested me to look out 
for a lodging in Kensington ; expressed a strong desire to go to Cove, saying 
he was sure a sea- voyage would serve him considerably, and told me that Dr. 
Ferguson had written him a letter, which recommended him to go to Chelten- 
ham, and that he would be as well as ever in a few months ; < but,* said the 
doctor, < what can I do — I have not a farthing to bless mvself with.' He did 
not seem any way apprehensive of death. We talked of the Queen Dowager's 
(then) recent marvellous recovery, and it seemed to haver made a strong ini« 
pre&sion on him. Judging from the state in which her Majesty was I am con- 
fident that even at that moment if the same means had been adopted with him 
the doctor might have been saved from death. His spirits were high and buoy- 
Aat ; he laughed and told stories, with as much fun and wit as ever. 

" I recdved an invitation to come frequentiy ; this 1 think was on the 2d or 
3d of August. I went down agiun on that day week. The doctor repeated to 
me the deplorable way in which he was, and wished me to buy and bring him 
down the Anti- Homeric Poems, just published by Didot. He said they would 
oost me eighteen shillings : ' they will bring me in four or five guineas,' says he, 
* which wiu be ffood profit* 

« On the 1 Uh of August, I wrote to Sir Robert Peel :• on the foUowmg 

* We insert our correspondent's letter here, as we think it well merits preserva* 
tton :-. 

» Foraltal*! Ion, Ancort 11, 1S42. 

** 8ia— I do not suppose that any apology will be necessary for troubling jou 
^th this letter. I write, I may sa^, on a matter of life and death ; and I beheve 
JOQ are too food a man not to forgive the intrusion when you consider the motive, 

*' Withm Uie last few days I have been with Dr. Maginn._He lies at Walton, I 

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100 Our Portrait CfaOeri/. [JadL 

Sktnrdaj I went down to Walton, and remained there till Sondaj nigfat* Ite 
asked me to lend him fifteen pounds, at he was in utter want. ' 1 haTe not 
money enough,' said he, ' to buy a leg of mutton.' I told him I should bnn^ 
it to him. 
In a letter written home that night 1 find the followrag passages s — 

'* Smidaj Night, Anfort 15, 1842. 

" ' I have just come up from Walton in oompany with — ^. I do not suppose 
that the poor doctor will survive the week. When I was down with him last week 
he was able to stir about, and used to dress himself, but now all is changed. He 
cannot even lift himself in the bed without help, and death is already pictm^inhis 
countenance. To give you an idea of his weatcness : I sat with him this evening 
after dinner for a considerable time. He was then sitting up in his arm chair with 
blankets and flannels about him. He got tired, and requested me to put him to 
bed. You know that I am not the stoutest person in the world, and the doctor was 
always twice my sixe ; yet I was strong enough to carry him across the room, and 
put him into hea just as if he were a little child. He is reduced to a mere skeleUm, 
^kin and bone ; and whatever he drinks must be lifted to his mouth, so weak and 
quivering is his hand. He told me a number of amusing things, for he has scarcely 
any idea of death — I say scarcely, for he sometimes alludes to it, but in his own 
humorous, simple, careless way. 

*' As soon as the doctor had concluded, he dictated some lines of a Homeric 
Ballad to me. I suppose they are the last he will ever write on this earth, for he 
is sinking away like tne flame of a dyin^ lamp, and a puff would exting^uish him. 
His eyes retain all their softness. (1 thmk I mentioned to you some years ago» 
that thev were the mildest I ever saw,) but are larger and brighter than before^ 
and his mtellect has not lost one atom of its clearness, wisdom, and beauty. Hia 
voice is a mere whisper ; he cannot speak a word with any loudness, but all in » 
low subdued whisper, and he coughs dreadfully. His breathing is quick, and you 
can hear the rattlmg of his lungs as he inhales the air. He is suoject to most 
strange fancies. Sometimes he thinks himself sinking in the bed, and grasps the 
clothes to support himself. There is a little closet in the room ; the door of it waa 
open, and he said he saw a man there with a drawn sword. He eot It shut up. 
' I've just been talking to Letitia — she has been here an hour,' said ne the other da^r 
to Mrs. R i 'she sat there, just opposite.' He told me that he saw horrid 

am sorry to say, in a state bordering on death. Consumption has set in, and his 
physicisA is of opinion that nothing now can save his Urn but a voyage to soma 
warmer climate. For such a journey I have reason to believe that he does not pos^ 
sees means ; even to support himself in his present condition, he is obliged, from 
his sick bed to dictate to his daughter, (for ne is too weak to hold a pen) articlea 
for the magaiines and newspapers ; and he must perish if relief be not speedily af- 
forded. Of his danger he is entirely unaware ; but though it is known to his wife 
and family, they shru\)L from applying to those who might feel proud to relieve him. 
Under these circumstances I appeal to you on his behalf. I do so without the 
knowledge of any person connected with him. I do not wish it even to be known 
that I applied to you, for my only motive is that I love the man. I will not enlarge 
on the eminent services he nas rendered in his literary capacity to that party, and 
those principles of which you have long been the leader and most eloquent expounder i 
nor need I remind you that he possessed a virtue too rarely met with in authors, hav- 
ing never written a line which the most modest eye might not see, or the most fasti'* 
dious lip repeat. I will not appeal to you on any narrow sround i but regarding 
Dr. Maginn as an individual of exalted genius, the most umversal scholar perhaps 
of the age, and as good, and kind, and gentle-hearted a being as ever breathed, I 
ask you would it not be a pity and a shame if such a man were abandoned, in 
this majestic country, and sufl!ered to sink into a premature grave for the wan€ 
only of^ those remedies which might restore him to his family and the public? 
His claims for a literary pension are as high as those of any person who has oh* 
tatned one within the last twenty years, and certainly no one ever required it more, . 
though he never sought It, or complained that he was forgotten. But I fear tha^ 
the tardy relief which a pension would afford, would be unsuitable to his present 
danger. To you, then, I leave the consideration of his case. Add one more jewel 
to the many which already adorn your character ; and bear with me while I remind 
you that the crisis is imnunent, and not a moment to be lost. 
" I have the honour to be, shr, your most humble and obedient servant lio. &o." . 

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J644.] XXXIV^WaUam Maginn, LLJ). lOl 

threatening fkoes all about him at times. I know/ said he, ' that it is all delusion, 
bat then the fancy is jost as bad as if they were real/ 

*' On Tuesday night, the 17th of August, I got a letter from the secretary of 
Sir Robert Peel, (the late Mr. Edward Drummond,) stating that the premier 
had taken measures for the ;;elief of Dr. Maginn. On the following day I went 
down to Walton with Mr. Drummond's letter ; but his family had not seen fit 
to apprize blm of the premier's generosity. On this occasion he again al- 
luded to his poverty, and the ingratitude of his party. In fact, he seemed to have 
no other trouble on his mind. On Thursday evening I left Walton : I never again 
saw him alive. He died on the following Saturday; and I firmly believe died in 
%norance of the splendid gift of the prime minister of England — a gift that 
would have afforded him much consolation in bis dying moments. 

He was buried on Monday, August 29 — a day of sunshine, of thunder, and 
%htninff. The church re-echoed peal after peal, of the most appalling thunder 
during the reading of the service. As the cofiin moved to the gfaxe, the fiashet 
And the peals became terrific— no rain or cloud, no mist or shadow was in the 
beauttftu sky. When the coffin was lowered down, the thunder passed away« 
and left the sunshine over his grave undisturbed and radiant. 

The foUowhig '< Fragment" on his death was published soon after. It par* 
takes of the wild scene it commemorates :— . 


The dead bells were tolling, 

The thunders were rolling. 

The big clouds were dashing. 

The fierce lightning flashing 

In mirth— • 

But yet from the heaven 

The sun was not driven. 

Its beams glitter'd o*er him. 

As slowly we bore him 

To earth. 

The sunlight so splendid. 
With thunder thus blended. 
The red eyes of lightning. 
The atmosphere bright'mng. 

Made those 
Who went there and trembled, 
Bat think it resembled 
The giant mind broken. 
By sorrows unspoken 

And woes, 
For strong as the thunder 
That ren£ rocks asunder. 
Was he, when God-^fted, 
His bright mind uplilted 

Her crest; 
And gentle and beaming. 
Like sunshine in seeming. 
His spirit was •moulded—' 
And fondness enfolded 

His breast, 
The prayers they were mutter'd. 
The answers half stutter 'd, 
The parson off started. 
The clerk, too, departed 

To bed;— 
But the Spirit of Thunder 
Stood there in bis wonder, 
With Lightning his Brother, 
To guard one and t'other, 

The Bead. 

The portrait of Maginn prefixed to this essay b an admirable liktness, and 
doM great credit to the artist^ Mr. Samuel Skiliin# of Cork. 

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Paris and it* People* 



This is essentiallT the age of *' tour de 
force* in every thing. The effort is 
not to he better or wiser than our 
forefathers^ but to be different : to do 
something which they have done in 
another way — to accomplish an object 
with inferior means ; m a wordy we 
mi^ht characterize theera, by saying, 
it is ** the pursuit of all things under 
difficulties.*' Hence the monocord per- 
formances of our violinists, the learned 
pi^s, the industrious fleas, the singing 
mice, and the hoc genus onrne of those 
absurd contradictions which amuse far 
less than they astonish, and are much 
more calculated to excite surprise than 

Among the wonders of our time, 
Holman, the blind traveller, stands 
pre-eminently forward. The singula- 
rity of any one suffering under such 
a bereavement adventuring upon that 
career, which, of all oUiers, seems 
most to demand the faculty of which 
he was deprived, cannot ful to strike 
us with astonishment. That a tra- 
veller — the observer, par excellence — 
should be blind, seems most prepos- 
terous. What can we elean from him 
to whom the great volume of nature 
was closed, and whose knowledge of it 
alone consisted in the retailed opinions 
of others? Where are we to find those 
descriptions of places and people, pic- 
tured forth as they stood, life-like and 
striking, which make the page of the 
traveller so full of interest to the 
reader — where those observations 
which reveal the keen observer of this 
world's changes — detecting, even in 
the outward semblance of Uiings, the 
working of those secret impulses which 
alter the face of nations ? Alas I we 
have none of these. The gloom of 
night spreads like a pall over the earth, 
and we grope our way through lands 
rich in features of picturesque beauty — 
through cities, whose monuments are 
the records ofgreat achievements — with 

the cold nncheenng sense of having^ 
for our companion, one whose sorrow 
it is, to know nought of these things. 

But yet, the blind have something^ 
hallowed in their affliction. The same 
will that veiled to them the world 
without, has turned their orbs to look 
within. The faculties which, under 
happier circumstances, had roved free 
and untrammelled over the objects of 
this fair world, are concentrated oa 
reflection. The sun-lit skies and dark- 
ening clouds, that alternate in their 
influences on others, produce no effSect 
on them ; theirs is an unvarying exis- 
tence. Thought begetting thought, 
they build a superstructure for them- 
selves, wherein those they love are pre- 
sented before them, in the aspects thev 
most desire, and fancy, unchecked, 
realises to their minds pictures of 
greatest beauty. The other senses, 
too, become wonderfully acute in these 
cases, supplying, by instincts of their 
own, many of the attributes which 
sight possesses ; hence the remarkable 
tact blind people display regarding 
the temper and habits of those with 
whom they converse for the first time. 
The indications which tone of voice 
and utterance suggest, are studied by 
them with a surpassing skill — and traits 
of temperament elicited in the slightest 
inflections of sound. The opmions 
and thoughts of a blind man are ever 
interesting, for this reason — they are 
unlike other men's — the stamp of origi- 
nality is on them all, they come 
marked by the peculiar circumstances 
of his infirmity, but endowed with 
features which happier organizations 
never can confer; for this reason, 
however little suited to his task, the 
blind traveller will be always an inte- 
resting one — less, be it remembered, 
for the information he can bring us 
back of distant lands, than for the 
psychological study his own mind pre- 
sents to us. You turn firom the coun- 

* Paris and its People, by the author of "Random Recollections of the 
and Commons/* *'The Great Metropolis,** &c. &c. In two Vols. Lc 
Saunders and Otley, Conduit-street 1844. 

London : 

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Paris and its People, 


trj to tbe traYdler^ and jot think of 
every thing only in its relation to him 
and his sensations. 

Let ns now turn from this digres- 
sion^ — fair suchy after all, it is — to ad- 
dress ourselves to the more immediate 
object before us. If there be difficul- 
ties innumerable to the man who can 
not see, in exploring a foreign land, 
what shall we say of him who cannot 
speak^-who neither can question those 
he meets with on the singularity of 
observances and habits, but must let 
his mere eyesight convey its uncon- 
nected impressions to his brain ? who, 
denied of all faculty intercourse, 
walksy as it were, spell-bound among 
his fellow-men — ^his eyes open, but his 
intellect closed ; his body awake, but 
Ids intelligence sleeping ? What mat- 
ters \U whether his infinnitv be heaven- 
imposed or self-inflicted ? tne man with 
bandaged eyes is, to all intents and 
purposes, as blind as he who never 
saw ; and in this wise, the stranger, 
Ignorant of the lanffuaee of those 
among whom he travels, for all advan- 
tages of speech, might as well have 
b^n brought up in a deaf and dumb 
asylum. Such is he who now presents 
to the world a work on Paris and its 
people. Its people ! — only think for an 
mstjuit of that most involved web of 
huooanity, that most intricate of all 
tiie tangled skeins of human existence, 
the Parisian, becoming the subject* 
matter of meditation to a man who 
eannot conyerse with him ; who, igno- 
rant of that language, which, more 
than any other in Europe, reyeals the 
class, de tone, the habits, the daily 
Bfe of the sneaker, ventures, on ;the 
evidence of his eyesight, to catch the 
traitsy and delineate the features of this 
ever-changing and versatile population. 
Conceive, for a second, the hardihood 
of this attempt, and estimate after- 
wards the value of those researches 
into nationality made under this <' silent 
system ;" or with the, if possible, more 
deceitfiil aid of an interpreter, pidd at 
fire francs per diem. Penny-a-lining 
19 truly an awful thing; it neither 
respects gods nor columns. Nothiog 
18 too hot or too heavy for its touch. 
Crude impressions and flat common- 
places are its stock in trade ; and 
troisms, indited with the practised 
flippancy of a daily pen, constitutes its 
rMources. So long as its skill is 
exercised on tbe every-day objects 

before it, so long its information, if 
not novel or accurate, will at least 
have a certain relation to fact. It will 
smack of the reporter. But change the 
venue, and mark the consequences — 
observe the tissue of blunders this fatid 
facility of twaddle suggests, and watch 
into what egregious ignorance it pre- 
cipitates its possessor. Mr. Grant 
might have revelled in his innumerable 
descriptions of London, under every 
variety of title the ingenuity of Grub- 
street could devise, and whether called 
«* Travels in Town,** "Sketches of 
London,** ** Light and Shadows of 
London Life," "The Great Metro- 
polb,*' or any other svnonyme, we 
never should have thought it necessary 
to arraign him at the bar of criticism. 
The thing was at home among our- 
selves — ^the habits he pictured, whe- 
ther true or false, were English — of 
which, if he thought it worth while to 
be the historian, it was no affair of 
ours ; his opinion on them was of 
course open to him — and we neither 
quarrelled with him for his political 
leanings, or his party prejudices. But 
the matter becomes different, when hd 
leaves this safe and well-beaten path, 
worn smooth and even by his own 
footsteps. We cannot afford igno« 
ranee about France ; the reproach has 
existed too long against us ; it is time 
to throw it off, and for ever. I repeat, 
we cannot afford to let Frenchmen 
hear that we mistake and misconceive 
them to the full as much as we did 
fifty years affo. The long peace, which 
has opened ueContinent to our tourists, 
has given us opportunities, which, if 
n^lected or misapplied, would ineffa* 
bly disgrace us \ and we feel that such 
is not the fact. We are assured that 
France and Frenchmen are, if not 
thoroQghly understood, at least fairly 
appreciated by the mass of cultivated 
English people ; and we must not lose 
this vantage*ground, by suffering the 
half-formed notions and miserable 
common-places of a very inferior tra- 
veller to damage this high position.- 
It will not do to let Frencnmen, who^ 
in the great majority of cases, are as 
ignorant of us and our usages, as they 
are of the Chinese, suppose, that our 
travellers are made of this metal. Let 
them blunder on about our national 
debt, and our grinding aristocracy, our 
insufferable pride, and our coldness of 
temperamenti our wife-selling and 

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Porta and iit PtopU. 


snioidal tatfety and to forth— bnt l«f 
%Mf at leasty gain oredit for a nearar 
wpproacb to troth in our estimation of 
thenu French is spoken bj at least 
fifty nati?es of our country for one 
Frenchman who can even read English* 
Their literaturcf " tant pis" in some 
casesy is known to thousands here— i 
while ours» save through translations— 
many of them poor enongb~4}ur89 is 
comparatively unknown in Paris. Their 
best critic on English literature, Phila* 
rete Chasles himself, to give no other 
instance, speaks of CrofU>n Croker as 
the great critic of England, and editor 
ofiheQtuarterly Review, We may smile 
at these things — but let us, in heaven's 
name, not be kughed at in turn. That 
Mr. Grant's book would sul^ect us to 
this visitation we are fearfully aware^. 
and have only one consolation on the 
subject, which is, the gpreat probability 
ofits never being read there. Still as it is 
possible that the *' Revue Britanmquei^ 
which notices the minority of works on 
France, may chance to advert to it, we 
cannot forbear entering our protest 
against the book, as indicating either 
the opinions or views of cultivated 
Englishmen on that country. 

The volume opens by a very cnr« 
oomstantial detail of the external ap- 
pearanoe of the houses in Paris, which 
had the city been Peldn, would have 
been, doubtless, interesting enough; 
but really, when the whole panorama 
is only, via Southampton and Havre* 
some thirty hours' journey, it is ra- 
ther hard to stomach forty pages of 
such trivialities as the following : — 

<<The houses in all the leading 
streets range from five to ten stories 
in height— *-The fronts are covered 
with nlaster-*-*-The Paris shops are 
remarkable for the number and the 
size of their mirrors, no matter what 
the business is which is followed in 
the shop— There you are sure to see 
some young women— -The streets in 
the centre of the city are exceedingly 
oarrow-— »The entrance to the houses 
is not as in England, bv a small private 
door, but by a large double door re* 
SMnbling a gatewav— <— -The principal 
streets are lighted with g as The 
window-blinds, shutters, &o„ of the 
houses* are very different from thosQ 
in England— th^ open and shut from 
the outside—* -The windows are un« 
like ours— -instead of drawing up and 
dowui tW QjfiBK a^d »hut lilM % dQU? 

ble door.** Why did iMt ovr wnXbae 
take as the motto for this remarkable 
chapter, that line in the ** Rejected 

<* The horses t^ls hung down behind, 
The shoes were on their feet,** 

this startling description would hav^ 
chimed in so happily with the very 
sin^ar facts he records. 

Our author, in true English taste, 
finds fault with the absence of names 
on the doors-~a custom which exists 
in no part of the Continent, and sagely 
observes, that though there is a porter, 
called a concierge^ ^yet when the in- 
quirer is a straneer, and cannot speak 
the language, he finds himself no better 
off than it there were no such person 
as the porter I- What! does Mr. 
Grant expect that this humble menial 
is to be a jpolyglott Cerberus, with a 
language for every visiter? or would it 
not be more reasonable for the in- 
quirer, beine in France, to know 
something of French? What brought 
him there if he did not ? is the eternal 
Question rising in our minds. ** Que 
diable I Alloit il faire dans cette ga« 

" When you get to any apartment**' 
quoth Grant, ''which you wish to en* 
ter, you pull a string, which linffs a 
bell. Keally if we were disposed to 
be critical, we should say that this 
style had its origin in the entertaining 
hbtory of Littie Red Ridinff Hood — 
''puU the bobbin and the latch will 
rise," sayeth the wolf, and the result 
in both cases will be ''an immediate 
response from some of those within.** 
And this is about Paris and its peo* 
pie I 

" You never hear expressions, on the 
part of omnibus conductors, in Paris, 
similar to those of 'hold hard, and 
all's right.'** Not knowing the French 
equivalents for these pr^se phrases* 
we are unable to pronounce on the accu- 
racy of this statement ; but we accept 
the information as curious, and indica« 
tive of Parisian life, and pass on to 
some dozen more pages about cabs* 
carts, cabriolets, and fiacres, till we 
are as sick of fares and set-downs aa 
ever was a London magistrate at the 
end of a session. 

After some very flat description of 
public buildings and houses* we come 
to the following : — 

. "S^wem thi Aw »U 0o«^r6 m4 

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Paris €md U$ Peoplk 


flboortlMni fioolefiurds, lies the Palaltf 
Bo^ale. There is no part of Paris 
which is so constantly in the thoughts, 
or so freqneotlj on the Ups of the Pari- 
sUn as this locality. He thinks of it 
by day, and dreams of it by night. He 
regards it with all the fervour of affeo* 
tion with which a Ioyot adores his mis- 
tress. It is in a sense mixed up with 
Us Tery existence. Paris with all its 
attractions would be scarcely tolerable 
tohun, were he denied access to the 
Palais Royale. Wherever the genuine 
Parisian is, whether in any other part 
of the city or in the provinces, whether 
at home or abroad, his thoughts and af- 
fections 'tend aa surely to the Palais 
Royale as the needle points to the pole. 
I)eath may tear an attached friend from 
his embraces, and he is overwhelmed for 
a season with sorrow at hb loss ; but 
it is only for a season. Time heals the 
wound which the bereavement has in- 
flicted, and he is himself again. It is 
otherwise if he be placed in oircum- 
itances which debar him from the Palais 
Royale. It is the heaviest calamitv, the 
leTerest a£9iction which can befall him. 
The exclusion preys on his spirits and 
wears away his body. To those who 
hare not been in Pans this may appear 
exaggeration ; but it is not so. We all 
know the ascendancy which the love of 
eonntry ohen acquires in the breast of 
a Scotchman or a Swiss, when circum- 
stances have obliged him to reside in a 
foreign clime. The feeling at times so 
powerfully preys upon his mind as to 
impair his health. I know one instance, 
and there are many such most amply 
attested, in which a Scotch Highland- 
BiaD m South America died from the 
excess of his love of country. The 
»me ardent affection for the Palais 
Aoyale exists in the heart of a Pari- 
sian. I cannot sav I know any parti- 
cuUr case in which a Parisian, doomed 
to settle in the provinces or abroad, has 
died of a broken heart, because exiled 
from his beloved Palais Rovale; but X 
saw and heard enough, when in the 
F^ch capital, of the Parisian's pas- 
sionate fondness for that charming 
locality, to look on such an event as 

To have put forward gravely and 
•erioosly^ such a piece of absordity as 
tfaisy IB really too bad. Who could 
have been cruel enouffb to hoax the 
Unhappy Grant to such an extent, we 
cannot think. This wanton wicked- 
ness to a poor mail, who could not 
speak for himself^ is positively inex- 
fc 1^ Qranl ibQuU bave loiown tbat 

the Palais has neax^ly entirely lost its 
vogue. That its RestaurantSy to which 
it owed its ffreatest celebrity, have 
greatly deteriorated of late years— 
the Trots Freres alone mahitaining a 
high repute. V6ry and •* Vefbur** have 
both sadl^ fUlen, and the cafes are 
BOW inferior to several of those in the 
Boulevards. The frequenters of the 
Palais always were a certain class of 
the bourgeois, who lived in remote 
parts of Paris, and came there for 
a distraction, or a jour de fete — the 
better order of its visiters being 
foreigners — mostly English — ^many of 
them, like Mr. Grant, of the staring 
and speechless class, who lounged 
about the colonnades, peering into 
pipe shops, and gasing with dewy lips 
on pate defoie grae and packets of as- 
paragus. That such people, even 
with the aid of a five-mino interpret 
ter, may conoeive the Palais Royal as 
the resort of all Paris is possible 
enough i but it would require a higher 
reach of imagination to describe th0 
agonies of banishment and separation 
from it, so pathetically as our author 
has done. 

As to the ''immense crowds of 
persons dressed in the extreme of 
fashion," we can only say we never 
have seen them there, and cannot ao- 
count for their presence to Mr. 
Grant's eyes, on any other hypothesis^ 
than that we have glanced at in thd 
eommencement of this paper — ^that 
the deprivation of one sense neiffhtens 
the perception of all the rest. In this 
wav there is no accounting for the 
qmck-sightedness of the speechless. 
And as to the '' sitting luxuriously bi 
chairs," we cannot quarrel with Mr. 
Grant's ideas of luxury; but of a 
verity, a rush-bottomed, straight- 
hacked, Palais Royal chair, suggests 
to us notions as remote from luxury 
as need bej and how the practice can 
maJce you fancy ''you are in Eden, 
only that you see no fruit," is passing 
8l7anffe to us. Not such oertunly are 
our ideas of Paradise, nor are we able^ 
hj BUY stretch of our imagination^ 
aided by our author's elotpence, to 
convert a set of coffSde-drinkmg, cigar- 
smoking Parisian shopkeepers, into a 
scene realising the "most beautiful 
eonceptions to be found in our Mrj 

Tempted by the title of a chapter-* 
^QeoKtX remarks on tho paopU**.-^ 

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Paris and its PtepU. 


we came' upon the following Tdnr 
•ingalar piece of intelligence : — *' A 
Frenchman would sooner receive a 
blowy which would injure his head* 
than one which would damage his hat. 
He will pardon an insult offered to 
himself ; but he will never forgive you 
if you destroy or injure his hat." Now 
a quai ban f we would ask, to exclaim 
against the absurd stories French tra- 
vellers retail of us and of our habits^ 
if such preposterous nonsense as this 
is to be circulated of them. We are 
angry, and justly so, that a late 
tourist in England should assert that 
bozbg is a common termination of a 
dinner-party in fashionable London 
fociety; but why charge the igno- 
rance of such stories on Frenchmen ? 
After all, they may have their Mr. 
Grant's writing long-winded descrip- 
tions of common-places — vamping up 
volumes of trashv detail — maJcing, as 
it were, a kind of municipal inventory 
of Paris, under what the ** trade" call 
<< taking titles,** and these eentlemen 
may, for aught we know, take a trip 
across the sea to describe the manners 
and customs of a people with whose 
language they are totally unacqainted. 
This remark is followed up by a 
statistic on the subject of beards and 
mustaches, contrasted with the smooth- 
chinned portion of the population, in 
which he assures us tnat the latter 
*'have it." And again, as to the 
greater prevalence of beards or mus- 
taches, where we come to the start- 
ling iact, that there are, at least, 
^ three mustaches to every beard.** 
This is a curious, and for aught we 
know, a very important discovery, il- 
lustrating, in a remarkable manner, the 
tone of ttiought just now gaining cur- 
rency in France. Doubtless Mr. Urant 
has seen that extraordinay tract writ- 
ten during the second year of the 
empire, entitled " L' Influence des 
moustaches, dans TEtat," and is slyly 
hinting at political changes in embryo, 
of which, for reasons of state, he de- 
clines to speak more openly. We are 
certain that nothing short of such 
views could have led him into three 
pages* disquisition on a topic of this 
nature. Let no one then .hastily onr 
pshaw 1 at this rather lengthy detail. 
Like the writer in the Spectator, our 
author, when most stupid, must be al- 
ways suspected of having something 
underwit*. Aa we read oQ«»for the 

subject is one which he Ungen on, and 
cannot part with — we find:— 

"The question whether beards or 
mustaches be most becoming, is one whi^ 
often leads to animated cuscussiona in 
Paris. I have heard opinions expressed 
on either side of the question, with all 
the gravity with which a decision is 
given from the judicial bendi. I should 
feel disposed to give mv vote in favour 
of the beards. 1 would do so on this 
intelligible ground— that I dislike com- 
promises of any kind. And mustaches 
are nothing more than a compromise 
between nature and the barber,— ho- 
mage beinff rendered to nature in allow- 
ing her to have her own way on the up- 
per lip, while the interests <m the barber 
are regarded by dally sobmitting the 
lower regions of the face to the opera- 
tions of his razor. Men should be 
either one thing or another, I should 
be either for tdl beard or no beard, — 
either for a luxuriant crop of hair, or 
its entire absence. Nor is it the only 

f'ound of my dislike of mustaches that 
am opposed to all compromises: I 
think the preference is due to the full- 
grown beard on the ground of mere ap- 
pearance. I know that in this as well 
as in all other matters, tastes, like doc- 
tors, will differ, — but that does not 
shake my faith in the conviction, that 
luxuriant beards are incomparablv more 
manly than mustaches ; which, for the 
most part are miserable stunted things, 
•—excrescences which disfigure the hu- 
man face, converting even the most 
handsome countenance into an object 
which no one can behold with pleasure. 
*' It is gratifying to think that mv 
views on 3k\B point are spreading with 
railroad rapidity. Those who have 
long resided in raris assure me that the 
mustadies are every year diminishing in 
number, and that they promise, ere i 
lone, to become altogether extinct. So 
be It. In the provinces they are al- 
ready comparatively rare. For one I 
mustached gentleman your eyes en- 
counter there, you meet with a half-do- 
zen in Paris. Thev are now patronised 
by very few men of distinction. Louis 
Philippe has a decided aversion to them. 
None of his Ministers — none of them at 
least that I have seen — give them any 
countenance. On the iudical benca 
they are disowned, and among the 
' counsel at the bar,' there certainly is 
not one in twenty that cultivates mni- 
taches. Even our ovm Colonel Sib- 
thorp, the member for Lincoln, has lost 
all conceit of his mustaches and rid 
himself of them. For the last two or three 
years he has caused the raior to make 
deaa work of it, all over the lower part 

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Paris aud its People. 


of Ms face. I am not aware whether 
anj member of the House of Commons 
has formally congratulated the gallant 
ookm^ on hie improved taste, but 1 am 
sure they are one and all delighted with 
the change. The aspect of hb counte- 
nance has certainly improyed full fifty 
per oent. br the disappearance of his 

We ask pardon of our readers for 
thb quotation ; but we ^ve it less for 
its own merit, than to point at a yery 
common defect in our author's habits 
of writing — which is the constant 
practice of referring all things in 
Paris to a London standard, and mak- 
ing reference to English habits and 
institutions when speaking of France 
and Frenchmen. Thb piece of cock- 
neyism b most proyoking, and we are 
equally annoyed at it when we find 
Holbom brought side-by-side with the 
Boulevards, and Colonel Sibthorpe 
with ** La jeune France." How the 
gallant colonel comes to figure in a 
chimter on French beards* would puz- 
zle nimself sadly to account for ; and 
DO ingenuity indeed, short of our au- 
thor*^ could have achieved the ''metas- 
tasb." So it is, however, and, to 
complete the bewilderment, at a Httle 
further on we find Mr. Muntz, the 
M.P. for Birmingham. Why thb 
great leviathan of rolled copper and 
sheet iron, suggested no little digres* 
sion of twenty pages on trade and ma* 
nofactures — the ten-hours bill — cash 
payments — corn and cotton — we can* 
not comprehend ; for, somewhat later 
on, we remark with what avidity he 
seizes on the subject of the soldier in 
France, to launch forth into a disqui- 
sition on the benefit of peace, and the 
Browing prospects of the society esta- 
blished to propagate such doctrines. 
And thb is he who disoourseth so 
learnedly on " Literary Quackery." 
''Ah, the doctor is a good man, for 
he knows what wickedness is." 

Mr. Grant theorizes on the walk of 
French women, and suffgests, as the 
secret of their superiority in this re- 
ject, that lightness of heart so marked 
and characteristic in* the French cha- 
racter, and most of all in female 
character. The explanation which a 
oontemporary critic seems to applaud 
for its ingenuity, we are dbposed 
to reject, and most nngallantly to 
ascribe to causes more material. 
tUs: French women walk 

better than Englbh and Germans, 
because they are better formed in the 
1^ and instep. The arch of the foot, 
the great a^ent in graceful motion, is 
strongly built, being preserved in early 
life by means of boots and shoes of 
more resbting materiab. The foot b 
not, as so commonly with us, flattened 
out, and the sole brought down to ri st 
flat on the ground. Thb care in 
youth secures the arched instep, and 
the well-turned foot, so essential at 
once to elasticity and firmness. That 
>'chaussure," in after life, attracts 
more attention from a French, than 
an English women, b natural enough, 
and has its evidence in that perfec- 
tion so displayed on this portion of 
the toilette. But so enamoured is 
our author of French vivacity and 
liveliness — the common cant of all 
your ** slow men" — that he even 
detects these characterbtics in situa- 
tions we should certainly not look for 
them. Even at " La Morgue :"— - 

" When in Fans, I accidentally had an 
opportunity of seeing the hodien of two 
persons wno had committed suicide; 
and if before they destroyed themselves 
their features were as composed, and 
the entire expression of their counte- 
nances was as tranouil, as after they had 
committed the deed, no one would have 
dbcovered in them an exception to that 
aspect of cheerfulness which is so marked 
a characteristic of the French." 

We willingly leave these matters, 
and pass on to somethmg which has 
the semblance of a reflection ; for, 
although already at the middle of Vol. L 
we have culled the sweets of the author, 
and are in no small apprehension, lest 
the new copy-rieht act may lay hands 
on us for our "beauties of Grant." 

" There was nothing I met with during 
m^ stay in France that grieved or sur- 
prised me more, than the strong preju- 
dices which every where prevail against 
England and the English. I had been 

{irepared for this among the lower and 
esB informed part of the population, 
but I certainly did not expect to meet 
with much of it among the educated 
classes of society. Strange to say, how- 
ever, the feeling b almost as general 
among them as among the most igno- 
rant of the Parisians. It b true that to 
Englishmen, individually, the French 
show the very greatest attention, and 
treat them with the greatest kindness i 
but the Englbh, as a people, and Eng- 

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Parit ani^tt Peopk. 


land, as a country, are regarded by them 
irith the most marked dislike. There 
tg somethine^ Tery anomalons— >some- 
thing rery difficult to understand in this. 
It is strange that the French should ex* 
hibit so strong an aversion to the Eng- 
lish, as a people, and yet evince the 
utmost partiality to them in their indi- 
vidual capacity. Still the fact is as I 
have mentioned. I content myself with 
stating; it ; it is for others, who have 
more leisure than I command, to endea- 
vour to account for or explain the seem- 
ing paradox. Not only the most unjust, 
but most ridiculous things imaginable, 
are said of England, and believed by the 
better-informed orders of French society 
I^othing, indeed, could be so transcen- 
dant in absurdity as not to be believed, 
if alleged against the English. I have 
sometimes, in fact, thouj^ht that the 
more legiblv the supreme absurdity of a 
charge against this country was written 
en its face, the greater would be the 
probability of its being swallowed by the 
Parisians. I was in Paris during the 
•ueen*s visit to France ; and many of 
UiQ reports then put gravely into circu- 
lation, not only by " The National," 
and other papers, but by private indivi- 
duals, were really of so superlatively 
absurd a nature, that one would have 
thought it impossible for human credu- 
lity, however great, to digest them. And 
yet tile French, with all their acuteness 
and all their intelligence, do swallow 
these colossal absurdities as readily as 
if the reports were truth itself. This 
is most oeeply to be regretted on the 
part of both countries. Both suffer from 
It in their respective moral influence, 
and in their oommeroial interests. It 
has the effect of keeping up that spirit 
of jealousy, rivalry, and enmity, which 
has existed in both countries a great 
d«al too long. Providence has placed 
England and France in ivch relative 
situations, as clearly show that they 
were meant to be on a friendly footing 
with each other. Thev are the two 
greatest countries on the face of the 
earth. United and friendly they might 
bid defiance to the world, and exercise a 
moral influence over all the nations of 
the earth, of the mightiest and most be- 
neficial kind. It would be the manifest 
interest of both to cultivate a perfect 
community of feeling — to understand 
each other on all the groat questions of 
the day — and to act in concert whenever 
the position of public affairs might re- 
quire their co-operation. I would appeal, 
on this point, to the editors of the news- 
paper press in France. They can influ- 
ence the public mind to an extent far sur- 
passing the influence exercised on public 
otinloti by the newspaper press of this 

oonntry. The jonraalistf of Franee, 
were tney to apply themselves to the 
task, would be able in a very short time 
to banish all the exlstmg prejudices 
against England from the minds of their 
countrymen. England has no such pre- 
judices agidnst France. England ad- 
mires many of the traits in the French 
character, and is most desirous of culti^ 
tivating a good understanding with 
France. Past differences, former ani- 
mosities, should now, by mutual con- 
sent, be buried in oblivion. The opinioii 
alluded to by Addison, in the '* Speota^ 
tor,*' as being verygenerally entertained 
in his day, that France and England 
were natural and irreconcilable enemies, 
has long ceased to be entertained in this 
country. The conviction now universal 
amongst us is, that they are natural 
frien(b, and ought to be united together 
in indissoluble bonds. England pants 
for such a union : all that is wanting to 
its being formed is the oonourrence of 
France itself. 

** But while none can be more sensible 
than ourselves of the utter groundless- 
ness of those suspicions which the 
French entertain against us, and while 
wc show that we entertain no unfriendly 
feelings towards them, we are not sure 
whether our metropolitan newspapers 
have, at all times, shown that forbear- 
ance, in dealing with their prejudices, 
with whioh we ought to regard a gene- 
rous, tliough, in this respect, mistaken 
people. We are too apt to reply in an 
angry spirit to the char^ they prefer 
against us, without makmg due allow- 
ance for the peculiar circumstances in 
Which France has been so often placed. 
We ought to remember that the French 
are an iniured people, and that the inju- 
ries which have been done to them have 
been too often ag^gravated by gratuitous 
insults. Nor must we conceal from onr- 
selves that we took an active part — in- 
deed, without our aid it could not have 
been effectual — in that foreign interfe- 
rence, by means of which the obnoxious 
Bourbons were twice foisted upon the 
French at the point of the bayonet. With 
the recollection of this fkct vet freeh in 
their minds, it is no wonder If they ttUl 
look upon us with a prejudiced ere, Wq 
<)an hardly blame them for then* sensi^ 
tiveness on the subj^ect of our interfe- 
rence in the war wnich terminated in 
1815, — since, if there be any one point, 
in reference to our past policy, on which 
Englishmen are now more agreed than 
another, it is in denouncing that inter- 
ference as most iniquitous and unjust. 
And, ▼orik* we have received our re- / 
ward. We are now reaping the bitter 
frvits of our f<^y and our guilt If the 
French have suffered in imlitary repn* 

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Paris and Us Peoph. 


Ution b^ the issue of the late war, we 
tre suffering no less severely in our 
pockets. Look at the hundreds of oiil- 
fioDS which it has added to our national 
debt,— the rery interest of which at 
times menaces the country with bank- 
ruptcj. The lesson which this has 
taught us wUl be a useful one. And it 
will be beneficial to others as well as to 
onrselres. There is little danger of 
England ever again gratuitously taking 
Dart m the quarrels of other countries. 
When they fall out they will be allowed, 
80 far as we are concerned, to adjust 
their own differences in their own way.'* 

Did it never occur to Mr. Grant, 
that this wholesale prejudice he speaks 
of, had its root in the unfounded re- 
presentations half-informed persons 
circulate on the two countries— that, 
what between the intentional false- 
hoods of party writers, and the more 
venial blunders of ignorant ones, both 
France and England, near though 
they be, are comparatively strangers 
•to each other. Indeed, paradoxical 
though it seems, the knowledge of 
•either country had been far greater, 
were they remote from each other. 

It is the eternal clashing of party 
feeling in the two chambers of repre- 
sentation, that sustains much of this 
spu-itof animosity. Each party with us, 
has its reciprocal one in Paris ; and the 
-advent to power of a whig or a tory, 
has a direct influence on the politics 
of the French government, and the 
cause of monarchy or democracy rises 
or falls by the fitful changes of our 
own political atmosphere. So much 
is this the case, that every one at all 
conversant with France knows how 
oar popularity in that country for some 
veara past has been mainly affected 
'by the individual in power at our 
foreign office. And if Lord Palmers- 
ton was near embroiling us in a fresh 
war. Lord Aberdeen's fair, but con- 
ciliating poHcy, has restored our rela- 
tions to a footing, saf^, secure, and 

As to the national animosity being 
really abated on either side, we are 
by no means sanguine. John Bull is 
a forgiving animal. It suits the cha- 
racter of his stubborn pride to be so. 
He likes the self-flattery of shaking 
hands with his adversarv — not the less 
heartily, that he knows he has had the 
best or it. But Frenchmen have a 
different standard to guide them — 
•AeyfW the insMlt of 1815, They 

remember too vividly the alliee bivou* 
acked in the " Champs Elysees, and 
quartered in their streets. They think 
of Waterloo — that peat disaster, 
that hangs like an ill-omened cloud 
aloft, and throws its gloomy shadow 
over their most brilliant victories. They 
recall the once greatness of France, 
and with all her present elements of 
prosperity and happiness, ten-fold 
more than ever she possessed in the 
palmiest days of the empire, they sigh 
after the period of her glory." ** We 
have not the same extent of territory 
Louis XIV. left us," said one of their 
most distinguished writers to ourselves, 
" why should you expect us to preserve 

peace i 

Let us not calculate too far 

on the spirit of a people animated by 
such regrets. The good feeling of 
individuals — the high sentiments of 
intelligence and honour, that charac- 
terise the few, are but deceptive indi- 
cations of the temper of the mass. 
France is at the disposition of an able, 
but ill-directed press. The writers, 
however they differ in the shades of 
partizanship, evince in one respect a 
feature of similarity. They are, with 
a miserable exception or two, all anti- 
English. If this spirit lived not in 
the people, we should not find it in the 
the press. The newspapers of every 
country, even where most powerful, 
are rather the " indices," than the 
suggestors of public sentiment, and 
this is remarkaoly the case in France. 
Scarcely a day passes, without some 
allusion to that topic of national jea- 
lousy ; and never is the sarcasm of a 
Frenchman more congenially engaged, 
than when discussing a question of 
English habits or morals. 

These things will bear their fruit in 
season. The nurtured dishke of a 
great nation is not to be held lightly ; 
nor is it to be averted by the flip- 
pant common-places of a book*making 

It is true the French, as Mr. Grant 
asserts, bear us ill-will for the grt^at 
wars of the empire ; but it is not the 
case, as he most absurdly assumes, that 
these wars had for their object the re- 
storation of the Bourbons, and that the 
national debt of England was incurred 
in *' foisting this family upon France." 

The wars were waged, and the debt 
incurred, because of the aggressive 
tyranny of the French Emperor. The 
continental system of Napoleon — a 
system that threatened utter aonihila^ 

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P{m9 and its People. 


tion to English commercei and ruin 
to her colonies— -was the source of 
that war, which at once placed Eng- 
land in the highest position among 
nations, and elevated the military cha- 
racter of the country, as second to 
none in Europe. The policy of Mr. 
Pitt rescued us from the fate of Aus- 
tria and Prussia ; and it ill becomes us, 
who never saw a foreign soldier within 
our sea-girt isle, to throw discredit 
upon his memory, who spared us the 
humiliation — the greatest that can 
befall a nation. 

Away, and for ever, with this 
trumped-up charge of our national 
debt being incurred in the defence of 
a legitimacy with which we were un- 
concerned ! The question was one of 
our existence as a people. The ty- 
rannical exactions of Napoleon, his 
thirst for territorv, his hollow faith, 
and, above all, his hatred to every 
thing English — these were the causes 
of our national debt: and while we 
smart under the pressure of the in- 
fliction, let us not be unmindful of the 
ereater evils it averted. Amiens and 
Luneville attest that England at- 
tempted to treat with her enemy. Not 
her's the fault if the negociations end- 
ed not happily. But Mr. Grant waits^ 
and we return to him :— i 

" The French have long been pro- 
verbial for their politeness ; and this 
national characteristic is still preserved 
in all its pristine perfection. Wherever 
yon go you are received with a measure 
of attention, of which you had no ex- 
perience, and could have bad none, be- 
fore you put your foot on Frendi 
ground. There is something exceed- 
ingly fascinating in the politeness of 
the higher classes of French society; 
though for the first few days the Eng- 
lishman feels rather oppressed than 
gratified by it. Ton never meet with a 
Frenchman who does not take off his 
hat, and make to you a succession of 
low bows. When he shakes you by the 
hand, be does it with both his hands ; 
and if he had all the hands of Bricsrius, 
he would pat every one of them in re- 
quisition in expressing the delight he 
feels at meeting with you. Politeness 
is a science with the French, if, indeed, 
it be not an instinct of their nature. 
Metaphysicians have wasted reams of 
paper, and expended gallons of ink, in 
the discussion of the question, whether 
or not there be innate ideas. We all 
know the (pinions of Locke, and other 
celebrated writers, on this point. I ex« 

press no opinion either way, because I 
am no metaphysician ; and if I were, it 
is quite possible that my opinion would 
be entitled to no more consideration 
than the opinions of hosts of philoso- 
phers who have gone before me. Bat 
if there be such a thing as intuitive dis- 
positions, the disposition to be polite 
must be natural to the French. An 
Englishman who has not been in France, 
can have no conception of the extent to 
which the practice of politeness is car« 
ried. A gentleman never meets a lady 
in any retired place, though a perfect 
stranger to her, without taking off his 
hat, and making his most respectful 
obeisance. When entering the coffee- 
shops, eating-houses, or other pabUc 
establishments which gentlemen have 
occasion to visit, the first thing a Pa- 
risian does on crossing the threshold, is 
to take off his hat to the female who 
presides in these places as a sort of 
goddess, at a small, tasteful desk : and» 
as if onoe were not sufficient, he repeats 
his obeisance as he quits the premises.** 

This is all very good } and we would 
have given more than we dare confeas 
to have seen the author himsrify with 
that bland smile we remark in his per* 
trait, performing his salutations to the 
''goddess at the tasteful desk." Why 
was he not represented in the act of 
this ceremonial ? Or better still, as we 
find a few lines lower down, '* seated 
to be shaved in a shop." Alas I Mr. 
Grant, we have been obli^^ to per- 
form that office for you, with our own 
hands, and we only hope not to scarify 
you in the operation. 

Mr. Grant assures us that many of 
the so-called legitimist party in France 
are nothing but disguised republicans. 
Where he learned this fact we cannot 
conceive ; but the annexed account of 
M. Chateaubriand is the dimaz to the 
absurdity of the whole passage :-— . 

"Just so is it with several distin* 
gubhed men in France, who are erro« 
neously supposed to be Legitimists, be- 
cause from personal friendship they still 
cling to the fallen familv, of whom 
Henry the Fifth is now the represen-' 
tative. Among these individuals is the 
celebrated Chateaubriand. His attach- 
ment to that unfortunate family has led 
to the opinion that he is a Legitimist 
He is nothing of the kind. One who is 
on terms of closest intimacy with him, 
assured me, when in Paris, that in heart 
he is a thorough-going Republican." 

Thisi we coofesflit is new to mi and 

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Paris and Us People* 


we suspect equally so to our friends 
in France. At least Victor Hugo, in 
his inaitgural address to the " Aca- 
demie,** gives a very different version 
of this distinguished writer*s career. 
Does Mr. Grant know, that Cha- 
teaubriand and Lemercier were among 
the few whom Napoleon, in the pride 
of his exalted station, could not se- 
duce from their attachment to the 
Bourbon cause ? 

Is he aware that Chateaubriand 
dared to hand back to Napoleon him- 
self his appointment of ambassador, 
when the death of the Due D'Enghien 
was announced in Paris ; and thus, by 
ooe act oi resolute defiance, to de- 
nounce the consul himself as the au- 
thor of that crime? Has he never 
»een or heard of the pamphlet, which 
appeared in the early period of the 
empire, urging the restoration of the 
exiled family to France, avowedly his ? 
Is be ignorant of the letter M. Cha- 
teaubriand addressed to the Duchess 
de Bern, during her imprisonment. 
If ever there was consistency in a po- 
litical career, it was Chateaubriand's, 
from his first step to his last — an- 
nounced a few days since in our pa- 
pers—when he arrived in England to 
pay his respectful homage to the Due 
de Bourdeaux — there was no waver- 
ing* no uncertainty. Without ap- 
Jffoving of his policy, or exalting his 
views, we would render justice to his 
chMiurter, and save it from a reproach 
which might be hurtful were it left 

Turning to the legislative chambers, 
whose title rather attracted us, wo 
foijjot for a moment that our author's 
Visit was made in the autumn season, 
when the theatres are, many of them, 
dosed, the Chamber of Deputies 
"up,** and Paris comparatively empty. 
However, the imagination of the 
writer steps in to our aid at this junc- 
ture, and he tells us : — 

"Havin|^ seen M. Gaizot at public 
meetings m London, I could fancy I 
WW him rise from his seat in the front 
bench, a little to the left of the presi. 
dent, and ascending the tribune with all 
the qmet dignity of manner for which 

he is remarkable, pour forth a torrent 
of withering sarcasm on some prece- 
ding speaker who had boon assailing tho 
government of which be is the head." 

If we cannot go the whole way with 
Mr. Grant in these imaginings, we are 
the less disposed to deny to him the 
full measure of enjoyment his inven- 
tive faculty supplies — being well as- 
sured, from what we know of his 
French, that M. Guizot*s presence in 
the flesh would not have enhanced the 
value of the scene by one particle of 

But we really are weary of our 
task, and gladly conclude it. A writer 
on Paris and its people, who, to all 
seeming, knew no one but his commis- 
sionaire, is a curiosity of literature, 
and may attract some future notice 
from Mr, D'Israeli. To our taste he 
has few attractions. 

Where, we ask, did ho discover that 
Dumas was the most successful dra- 
matic author in France ? Or how, in 
enumerating the writers for the stage, 
does he omit ** Scribe," the most suc- 
cessful of all dramatic authors of the 
hour? How, Alfred de Vigny, whose 
" Chatterton" alone would place him 
among the most distinguished drama- 
tists of any age ? Where did he learn 
that M. Guizot was a mere professing 
Protestant, without any religion save a 
political creed? Better far had he 
limited himself to those pleasant sta- 
tistics for which his taste inclines him : 
how many lamps there are in Paris ; 
how much brandy is daily drank in 
the capital ; how many people commit 
suicide, and from what several causes ; 
and other enlivening topics of the 
same nature. 

His one solitary visit — at least the 
only one of which we have a record — 
was paid to Jules Janin. The inter- 
view was conducted through the sworn 
interpreter. Doubtless, before this, 
Janin has made a feuiileton on him in 
the "Debats;" and we therefore feel 
absolved from condemning, as we 
might, this exposure of our unlettered 
countryman to the most insolent and 
sarcastic critic of all France. 

Vol. XXIII.— No, 133. 

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Lard BroughanCi Biitorieal Sketches, 


TBI TBIftO •■■IM. 

CuiTicisE him* censure hiro a« we maj» 
there is a great deal to admire about 
Henry Lord Brougham. Who can 
re);ard without wonder the inexhaus- 
tible energy which has borne this man 
fresh and unwearied through the storms 
of public life these thirty years» or 
more ; the easy vigour with which he 
still addresses himself* to every variety 
of pursuit ; the vast extent of his real 
attainments — even though we should 
g^ant him at times superficial and pre- 
cipitate ; the promptitude* brilliancy, 
and strength of his oratorical powers ; 
the steadiness — even amid every variety 
of party fortune and connexion, the 
remarkable steadiness — with which he 
has, on the whole, adhered to certain 
great principles of social and political 
philosophy, which, however easily ex- 
aggerated, are abstractedly and in 
themselves high and generous principles 
enough; — who can recall these qualities, 
and combine them with a nature, stern 
and merciless indeed in the field of 
fair fight, but in the interchange of 
daily life, kind, friendlv, and un- 
affected — without acknowledging, that 
with all that has been said, and often 
plausibly said, against him in the varied 
story of his public life, Henry Lord 
Brougham is a man his country has 
just reason to be proud of; a gpreal 
and conspicuous character, whose 
inarch across the first eventful half of 
this century cannot and ought not to 
be forgotten in his country's history ? 
These higher qualities which exalt 
Lord Brougham far above the level of 
even the ablest and most dexterous 
party orator or essayist, have become 
especially prominent in his later life. 
Like Burke, his powers seem to 
strengthen and enkindle in the sunset 
of his day. This is observable both 
within and without the walls of the 
House. In Parliament, his detachment 
from the modern and revolutionary 

school of Whig politics (here, too, not 
altogether unlike the career of that great 
man to whom we have just alluded), 
without any defined connexion with 
the opposite party, though not a posi- 
tion ordinarily coveted by statesmen, 
really suits his peculiar powers remark- 
ably. There is a fearless love of fair 
play, a fierce scorn of pretence and 
presumption of all kinds, which this 
mdecisive position enables him to in- 
dulge with prodigious occasional effect. 
Understanding as he does, to its inner- 
most recesses, every shift and device 
of the party with which he has quar- 
relled, he is enabled to expose its sub- 
terfuges with fcir greater power, than 
if he were regularly articled and in- 
dentured to a Tory apprenticeship. 
There is an appearance — in this case, 
we really believe, an honest reality — 
of equity and sincerity in criticisms 
extorted from a politician who coin- 
cides in the broad principles of the 
party he criticises, that, however the 
sufferers may affect to despise it, does 
impress the public deeply. But more 
than this — the orator thus unfettered 
can fulfil his own appropriate function 
more resolutely ; he is enabled to as- 
sume a more commanding and impar- 
tial position. Having little to gain or 
to lose, he can afford to address him- 
self to truth and to posterity. He 
can sympathise with every form of 
real excellence, and boldly acknow- 
ledge it, where party was in duty 
bound to perceive only deformity ; and 
he can fearlessly detect and expose 
error and fraud, where it would have 
been treachery to have whispered a 
defect. It is a strange and peculiar 
position, doubtless ; but to a restless, 
energetic intellect it has its attrac- 
tions ; and assuredly it is impossible 
to study our recent parliamentary his- 
tory without admitting that to the 
public it has its advantages. 

* Historical Sketches of Statesmen who flourished in the Time of George III. ; 
to which are added. Remarks on the French Revolution. Third Series. By 
Henry, Lord Brougham, F.R.S., member of the National Institute of France, 
and of the Royal Academy of Naples. London: Charles Knight and Co., 
Ludgate-street, 1843. 

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Lord Br^fugham^i HMorieal Sketekes. 


Ootsidd parliament the diversified 
talents of Lord Brougham have been 
manifesting tiieraselves even more con- 
spicuouslj. Varied accomplishments 
are perpetnally sneered at, as necessa- 
rilj superficial ; the profound men of 
one idea are merciless to the brilliant 
proprietor of fifty. The great orator 
and politician of whom we speak is noty 
however, to be called a dabbler in 
science and philosophy, because he has 
not penetrated into ally or perhaps any 
of hit innumerable objects of investi- 
gation, as deeply as the cloistered 
MTofessor of each. In all he does, 
be writes thoughtfully, interestingly, 
clearly, and yTom Atm#e{^. He brings 
the genius of the man of business and 
of the world into all ; going straight 
to his point without obscurities of 
phrase, or subtleties of involution ; 
and clothing his thoughts in that manly 
and simple Enelish which shows the 
iMucU of the idea, instead of hiding 
It in the rounded softness of outline, 
which enervates most modern styles. 
We think it, for our part, a fine spec- 
tacle to see advanced years thus pre- 
serving all the A'esh inquisitiveness of 
youth t and a pleasing and unusual 
one, to see truth communicated with 
at once so much simplicity and so 
lanch vigour. The Discourses, supple- 
mentary or introductory, to Paley, 
have their defects ; but no reader can 
fail to see in every page of them the 
genuine product of honest thought. 
The various miscellaneous essays on 
science and on eloquence deserve a 
similar character ; and the work now 
in course of publication, on Political 
Philosophy, is of unquestionable value, 
though we will not hazard a more deci- 
live ju(^ment before a more attentive 
inspection. I'he book at present before 
at is the third volume of a very inte- 
rtsting collection of historical sketches, 
which will probably become of consi- 
derable value hereafter, for the history 
of the last generation. The public 
are familiar with the former volumes, 
which have taken their degree as prime 
favourites on the library table; and 
We think the present and closing series 
fairly sustains the -character of its 
predecessors, though the subjects are 
learoely equal in point of historical 

Lord Broueham opens with the 
French Revomtion and its heroes. 
On the general question as to the 

causes of this great explosion of demo- 
crncy, he, of course, espouses the po- 
pular side ; enlarging upon the taillti 
and the corvee, and the other abomina- 
tions of modern feudalism, with all the 
unction of a genuine Foxite. But, 
perhaps, the most instructive point in 
his disquisitions upon this great theme, 
is his perpetual reference to the exist- 
ing state of things among ourselves ; 
sometimes indirectly indeed, but in a 
tone which shows how constantly the 
Ireland of 1843 is present to the stu- 
dent of the France of fifty years before. 
For example, at the close of a rapind 
and effective narrative of the stages by 
which the Jacobin clubs succeeded in 
establishing their execrable despotism, 
he thus moralizes his tale — 

" Here let us pause, and respectfully 
giving ear to the warnings of past ex- 
perience, as whispered by the historic 
muse, let us calmly rcivolve in our minds 
the very important lessons of wisdom 
and of virtue, applicable to all times, 
which these memorable details are fitted 
to teach. 

"In the firht place, they show the 
danger of neglecting due precautions 
against the arts and the acts of violent 
partisang working upon the public mind, 
and of permitting them to obtain an a<- 
oendant, by despising their power, or 
trusting to their being overwhehned and 
lo&t in the greater multitude of the 
peaceable and the good. The numbers 
of the ill-intentioned may be very iu- 
considerablo ; yet the tendency of such 
extreme opinions, when sealously pro- 
pagated because fanatically entertained, 
18 always to spread; their direction is 
ever forward ; and the tendency of the 
respectable and peaceable claspes is ever 
to be inactive, sluggish, indifferent, ul- 
timately submissive. When Mr. Burke 
compared the agitators of his day to 
the grasshoppers in a summer's sun, 
and the bulk of the people to the British 
ox, whose repose under the oak was not 
broken by the importunate chink rising 
from the insects of an hour, he painted 
a picturesque and pleasing image ; and 
one accurate enougn for the purpose of 
showing that the public voice is not 
spoken by the clamours of the violent. 
But unhappily the grasshopper fails to 
represent the agitator in this, that it 
cannot rouse any one of the minority to 
the attack ; while the ox does represent 
but too faithfully the respectable ma- 

iority, in that he is seldom roused from 
lis ruminating half-slumber till it is too 
late to avert bis fate. 
" But, secondly, it Is not merely the 

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Lord BrougJum,''* Hittorieal Sketehei. 


actiTity of agitators that arms them 
with force to overpower the bulk of the 
people — their acts of intimidation are 
far more effectual than any assiduity 
and any address. We see how a hand- 
ftd of men leading the Paris mob, over- 
turned the monarchy, and then set up 
and maintained an oligarchy of the most 
despotic character that ever was known 
in the world, all the while ruling the 
yast majority of a people that utterly 
loathed them, ruling tnat people with 
an iron rod, and scourging them with 
scorpions. This feat of tyranny they 
accomplished by terror alone. A rabble 
of ten or twelve thousand persons, oc- 
<!upying the capital, overawed half a 
million of men as robust, perhaps as 
brave, as themselves. But the rabble 
were infuriated, and they had nothing 
to lose; the Parisian burghers were 
calm, and had shops, and wives, and 
children ; and they were fain to be still, 
in order that no outrage should be com- 
mitted on their property or their per- 
sons. The tendency of great meetmgs 
of the people is two-fold — their num- 
bers are afwa^rs exap^gerated both by 
the representations of their leaders and 
by the fears of the by-standers ; and 
the spectacle of force which they ex- 
hibit, and the certainty of the mischief 
which they are capable of doing when 
excited and resisted by any but the 
force of troops, scares all who do not 
beloBg to them. Hence the vast ma- 
jority of the people, afraid to act, re- 
main quiet, and give the agitators the 
lUDpearanoe of biving no adversaries. 
They reverse the maxim, whoso is not 
against us is with us ; and hold all with 
them whom they may have terrified into 
silence and repose. That thb effect of 
intimidation is prodigious, no one can 
doubt. It acts and re-acts ; and while 
fear keeps one portion of the people 
neutral and quiet, the impression that 
there is, if not a great assent to the 
agitators, at least little resistance to 
them, affects the rest of the people until 
the great mass is quelled, and lar^ 
numbers are even induced by their 
alarms partially to join in the unop- 
posed movement." 

Who can doubt that the Jacobin 
olab of Burgh Quay sat fbr this por- 
trait? But Lord Brougham makes 
his Implication more unequivocal in a 
later passage : — 

"Can any thing more strikingly or 
more frightfully impress upon the mind 
a sense of the mischiefs which may 
spring from popular enthusiasm, when 
bad men obtam sway over a nation little 

informed, and unable or unwilling to 
think and judge for itself; ready to be- 
lieve whatever it is told by interested 
informants, to follow whatever is re- 
commended by false advisers, acting for 
their own selfish ends ? That no such 
scenes could now be renewed in France, 
we may very safely venture to affirm, 
though much mischief might still be 
wrought by undue popular excitement. 
That in this country such things are 
wholly impossible needs no proof; the 
very least of the terrible departures 
fVom justice which marked the course 
of the French mob-tyranny, would at 
once overthrow whatever person might 
here attempt to reign by such means, 
and would probabljr drive us into some 
diametrically-opposite extremes to tbose 
which had given birth to any outrage of 
the kind. But this security arises 
wholly from the people's habit of think- 
ing for themselves, and the impossibility 
of any one makine them act upon 
grounds which they do not comprehend, 
or for purposes in which they nave no 
manifest interest, or to suit views care- 
fully concealed from them, and only co- 
vered over with vague phrases, which 
in this country are Uie source of incu- 
rable distrust. 

**It is impossible to say the same 
thinff of all parts of our people; it 
would be most false to assert, for ex- 
ample, that the Iriih people are safe 
from such influence. On the contrary, 
they manifestly tb not think and judge 
for ihemselvet ; they certainly are in 
the hands of persons who need not take 
the trouble to jrive sound reasons, or 
any reasons at aU, for their advice. The 
Irish people are excited and moved to 
action, in the mass, by appeals to mat- 
ters, of which they do not take the 
pains to comprehend even the outline, 
much less to reflect on the import and 
tendency. They are made, and easily 
made, to exert tuemselves for thin^ of 
which they have formed no distinct idea, 
and in which they have no real interest 
whatever. They leave to others, their 
spiritual and their political guides, the 
task of forming their opinions for them, 
if mere cry ana clamour, mere running 
about and shouting, can be called ojȣ 
nions. They never are suspicious or a 
person's motives, merely because they 
see he has an interest in deceiving them. 
They never weigh the probabilities of 
the tale, nor the credit of him tbat telb 
it. Tliey matf be deceived by the saaie 
person nine times in succesMon^ and 
they believe him iuut as implicitly the 
tenth ; nay, were oe to confess that he 
had wilAilIy deceived them to suit a pur- 
pose of his own, they would only consi* 
der this a proof of his honesty, and lend 

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Lord BroughanCs HUtoncal Sketches, 


in ear if possible more readily to his 
next imposture. A people thus unin- 
Btmcted, thus excited, thus guided, are 
mo«t deeply to be pitied ; and the duty 
is most unperative on their rulers, by 
all means and writhout delay, to rescue 
them from such isnorance, and save 
them from such guides, by every kindly 
mode of treatment which a paternal go- 
Temment can devise. But such a peo- 
1^, especially if the natural goodness 
of thmr dispositions were not outraged 
by scenes of a cruel kind, would easily 
be moved to witness, and to suffer the 
grossest violations of iustice, would let 
themselves be hallooed on to the attack 
of their best friends by any wily im- 
postor that might have gained their 
confidence, and would suffer men as 
base and as execrable as Marat to usurp 
the honours of their Pantheon." 

And in commenting npon the career 
of Wilkesy in another of his sketches, 
he shows how different were the ma- 
terials that profligate demagogue pos- 
sessed to work withy from those which 
are so skilfully moulded by the Wilkes 
of our time and country : — 

"But the fall, the rapid and total de- 
clension, of Wilkes* fame^the utter ob- 
livion into which his very name has 
passed for all purposes save the remem- 
brance of his vices — the very ruins of 
his reputation no longer existing in our 
political lustory — this affords also a salu- 
tary lesson to the followers of the mul- 
titade, — those who may court the ap- 
plause of the hour, and regulate their 
conduct towards the people, not by their 
own sound and conscientious opimons of 
what is right, but by the deshre to eain 
fame in doing what is pleasing, and to 
avoid giving the displeasure that arises 
from telling wholesome though unpa- 
latable truths. Never man more pan- 
dered to the appetites of the mob than 
'WOkes ; never political pimp gave more 
uniform contentment to his employers. 
Having the moral and sturdy English, 
md not the voluble and vertatile Jrish, 
to deal with, he durst not do or say as 
he chose himself; but was compelled to 
fi^ow, that he might seem to lead, or 
at least to eo two steps with his fol- 
lowers, that no might get them to go 
three with him. He dared not deceive them 
fi^ottlif, ebiwuUy, openly, impudently — 
ditrtd not tell them opponte etories in 
the same hretOh — give them one advice 
to-day, and the contrary to-morrow — 
pltdge kimeelfto a dozen things at one and 

the tarn ttme-^then come before them with 
awry onepledye unredeemed, and aehtheir 
veiteSf and ath their money, too, on the ere" 

dit of at many more pledget for the tueeeed- 
ing half year — all this with the obstinate 
and iealous people of England was out 
of the question ; it could not have 
passed for six weeks. But he com- 
mitted as great, if not as gross, frauds 
upon them ; abused their confidence as 
entirely, if not so shamefully ; catered 
for their depraved appetites in all the 
base dainties of sedition, and slander, 
and thoughtless violence, and unreason- 
able demands ; instead of using his in- 
fluence to guide their judgment, im« 
prove their taste, reclaim them from 
bad courses, and better thehr condition 
by providbg for their instruction. The 
means by which he retained their at< 
tachment were disgraceful and vile. 
Like the hvpocrite, ms whole public life 
was a lie. 

This is ag^reeable reading for the 
gentleman so neatly pourtraTed. We 
decidedly recommend the volume as an 
important acquisition to the depart- 
ment of light reading in the Library 
at Darrynane. 

There is a good deal of the same, or 
a similar triun of thought, in the ac- 
count given us of the spedal talent of 
the bloody and remorseless Robes- 
pierre :— 

'*It would be difficult to point out 
within the whole range of hbtory, an- 
cient or modem, any person who played 
so great a part as Robespierre with so 
little genius. Those who were not bril- 
liant, whose parts were not such as 
dazzle the vul^r, and thus, bv bestow- 
ing fame and mfluence, smooth the way 
to power, have generally possessed 
some depth of intellect, some mental 
force which compensated, and far more 
than compensated, the want of shining 
faculties ; or, if their intellectual en- 
dowments were moderate, they have by 
a splendid courage, struck awe into the 
hearts of mankind ; or at least, bv ex- 
traordinary vigour and constitutional 
firmness of purpose, they have over- 
powered, though more slowly, all reels* 
tance to their will, and with constancy 
won their way to the head of affiurs. 
Nor are instances wanting, and perhaps 
Henry IV. of France is most remark- 
able, of amiable dispositions f^aining the 
affections of men, and makmg up for 
the want of any extraordinary gifts ei- 
ther of a moral or an intellectual kind* 
But in Robespierre we can trace not a 
vestige of any such kinds of exoellence, 
if it be not that he was unremitting hi 
his pursuit of aggrandisement, and had 
as much firmness in this regard as was 
consistent with a feeble and cowardly 

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Lord BroughanCs Hiiforicul Sketchei. 


nature. Nor ifl the secret of his rise to 
b« found in the circumstances of the 
times ; these were common to all candi- 
dates for power ; and he who outstrips 
«[11 competitors must have some supe- 
rioritj over them, natural or acquired, 
te account for his success. 

** It may be admitted, in all proba- 
bility, that his vices had in the peculiar 
crisis a chief part in the mastery which 
he obtained ; and his early possession 
of a secret, more imperfectly known to 
•others, perhaps only to him in its en- 
tirety, was tnat which, when coupled 
with those great vices, enabled him to 
act his extraordinary part. He, from 
•the dawn of the Revolution, saw with 
perfect clearness and precision the dis- 
position of the multitude to be roused, 
their power when excited, and the man- 
ner in which most surely to excite them. 
Ho perceived with unerrin<^ certainty 
the magical effect of taking extreme 
courses, gratifying their disposition to 
excess, freeinc; tnem bv removing all 
restraints, and, above all, avoiding the 
risk of quenching the flame by any in- 
terposition of moderate counsels, any 
thwarting of the spirit that had been 
raised. The perfectly unscrupulous 
nature of his mind, the total want of all 
kindly or gentle feelings, the destitution 
of even common humanity when the 
purpose of gratifying the propensity to 
▼iolence was to be accomplished, and 
the superadded excitement of the war 
to make the mob first his tools, and then 
hit slaves, enabled him to satiate that 
thirst, first of destruction, then of fame, 
whioh swiftly became a fiercer thirst of 
power, and, while it oould hardly be 
slaked by any draughts of the intoxi- 
cating beverage, clothed him with the 
attributes of a fiend towards all who 
either would interrupt or would share 
bU infernal debauch. 

Such are the bein^ who are even 
now existing in germ in our own land, 
waiting but the unnatural heat of civil 
. convulsions to ripen into rank and 
horrible luxuriance. Such are the 
chieftains whose advent the Pindars of 
Ths Nation invoke ; the heroic asser- 
tors of " liberty,'* who»e pikes are to 
recover enslaved Ireland from the in- 
supportable miseries of Saxon civili- 
lization back to the ragged glories 
of her Brebon era. 

After clever and interesting sketches 
of Lords Camden and EUenborough, 
and a vindication (not always perfectly 
clear) of the fourth Duke of Bedford 
from tbe assaults of Junius, Lord 
Brougham cotsM upon our ^wn Ute 

Chief Justice Bushe. He had not 
known him as a judge, but speaks 
highly of the peculiar talent which this 
eminent man displayed in an examina- 
tion before the committee on Irish 
affairs in 1839. 

" No one who heard the very remark- 
able examination of Chief Justice Bushe 
oould avoid forming the most exalted 
estimate of his judicial talents. Many 
of the questions to which he necessarily 
addressed himself were involved in party 
controversy, exciting on one side and 
the other great heats ; yet never was a 
more calm or a more fair tone than that 
which he took and throughout pre- 
served. Some of the points were of 
great nicety; but the discrimination 
with whioh he handled them was snob 
as seemed to remove all difficulty, and 
dispel whatever obscuritv clouded the 
subject. The choice of bis words was 
most felicitous ; it always seemed as if 
the form of expression was selected, 
which was the most peculiarly adapted 
to convey the meaning, with perfect 
simplicity, and without the least matter 
of exaggeration or of softening. The 
manner of giving each sentence, too, 
betokened an anxiety to give the very 
truth, and the slowness oftentimes 
showed that each word was cautiouslj 
weighed. There was shed over the 
whole the grace of a delivery alto|^- 
ther singular from its combined suavity 
and dignity. All that one had heard of 
the wonderful fascination of his manner 
both at the bar and upon the beneh, be- 
came easily credible to those who hoard 
his evidence." 

Of the extraordinary powers of 
Bushe as an orator. Lord Brougham 
observes — 

" But his merit as a speaker was of 
the highest description. His power of 
narration has not, perhaps, been equal- 
led. If any one would see this in its 
great ei>t perfection, he has only to read 
the Trimlebton cau^e; the narrative of 
Liry himself does not surpass that great 
effort. Perfect simplicity, but united 
with elegance ; a lucid arrangement and 
unbroken connexion of all the facts; 
the constant introduction of the most 
picturesque expressions, but never as 
ornaments; these, the great qualities 
of narration, accomplish its great end 
and purpose ; thev place the story and 
the scene before the hearer, or the rea- 
der, as if he witnessed the reality. It 
is unnecessary to add, that the tempe- 
rate, and ohaste, and even snbdued tone 
of the whole is unvaried «id mibrokeas 

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Lord Brougham's Hietorical Sketchet. 


but such prMse b«longji to ererr part of 
thk great speaker's oratory. NVhethcr 
b« declaims or argues, moves the feel- 
ings or resorts to ridicule and sarcasm, 
diMiU in persuasion or invective, he ne- 
ver is, fur an instant, extravagant. We 
have not the condensed and vigorous 
demonstration of Plunket ; we have not 
those marvellotts figures, sparingly in- 
trodueed, but whensoever used, of an 
applicatioQ to the argument absolutely 
magical ;* but we have an equal display 
of obastened abstinence, of absolute 
freedom from all the vices of the Irish 
sehool, with, perhaps, a more winning 
grace of diction ; and all who have -mt* 
nesaed it agree in ascribing the greatest 
power to a manner that none could re- 
sist. The utmost that a partial oriti- 
oisra eonld do to find a lault was to 
praise the suavity of the orator at the 
expense of his force. John Kemble des- 
cribed him as *the greatest actor off 
the stage ;' but he forgot that so great 
an actor must also have stood highest 
amonc^ bis Thespian brethren, had the 
scene been shifted.'* 

In the coarse of a long and favour- 
able account of his accomplished friend. 
Lord Wellealey, our caustic author 
gpves us a new glimpse of the Irish 
policy of his dear friends^ the Whigs— 

"In 1^5 Lord Wellesley accepted 
the hieh office of Lord Lieutenant of 
Ireland. His government was signalised 
by persevering attempts to obtain the 
emancipation of the [Roman] Catholics, 
and be was of course the object of bitter 
hatred and unsparing attack from the 
more violent of the Orange party. His 
recall took place upon tlra formation of 
the Wellington ministry in 1828. When 
at the end of 1830 the Whigs came into 
office, he was appointed Lord Steward 
of the household, and in 1833 he re- 
sumed the Viceroyalty of Ireland, which 

he held until the change of government 
in 1634. He then resigned at once his 
high office, not waiting till he should be 

Eressed to retain it, as in all probability 
e would have been. He held himself 
bound in honour to the Whig party to 
retire upon tlieir very unceremonious 
dismissal by King William. Steady to 
his party, be was actively engaged in 
preparing the opposition to the Peel 
ministry ; arranged the important mea- 
sure of the speakership, the first blow 
which that nunistry received ; and with 
his own hand drew the resolution which 
on the 8th of April brought it to a close. 
It cannot be affirmed that the Whig 
party was enquaUy steady to him. On 
their accession to power, I have heard 
bim*say, he received the first intimation 
that he was not to return to Ireland 
from one of the door keepers at the 
House of Lords, whom he overheard, 
as he passed, telling another of my friend 
Lord Mulgrave*s appointment. 

*' The teeret history of this transac- 
tion is not yet known ; and we are 
bound to disbelieve all reports which the 
gossip of the idle, or the malice of the 
spiteful, or the mistaken zeal of friends 
may propagate. Two things, however, 
are certain: finU Lord Wellesley** 
removal fVom among the Whic^s — that is, 
his not being re-appointed in April, 
1835 — could not by possibility be owhig 
to any the least douDt of his great capa- 
city for afiuirs continuing as vigorous 
as ever, because / have before me a 
detpateh in which the head of the go^ 
vemmentt as late as the end of August, 
1834, declares ' the solving of the prob- 
lem of Irish government to be a task 
every way worthy of Lord Wellesley *§ 
powerful and comprehensive under- 
standing;' adding, * You will not sus- 
pect me of flattery when I say that, in 
my conscience, I believe there is no man 
alive more equal to such a work, and 
more capable of effecting it, than your 
Excellency:' secondly ^ falsehood never 

* ** Let no one hastily suppose that this is an exaggerated description of Lord 
Plnnket's extraordinarv euHouence, Where shall be found such figures as those 
which foUow — each raising a living image before the mind, yet each embodying not 
Merely a principle, but the very argument in hand — each leaving that very argu- 
ment literally translated into fi^re ? The first relates to the statutes of limiUtioo, 
or to prescriptive title i-«* If time destroys the evidence of title, the laws have 
wisely and humanely made lenrth of possession a substitute for that which has 
been destroyed. He comes with his scythe in one hand to mow down the muni- 
ments of our rights ; but in his other hand tbe lawgiver has plaoed an hour-glass, 
by which he metes out incessantly those portions ot duration whidi reader needless 
the evidence that he has swept away.' 

** Explaining why he had now become a reformer, when he had before opposed 
the question t~* Circumstances,* said he, *are wboUv changed; formerly reform 
came to cor door like a felon — a robber to be resisted. He now approaoMS like a 
cfeditcr ; yon admit the JustiM of hit demand, and only disp«te the thna and the 
instafaMiU by whieh he ahaU be paid.'" 

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Lord Brougham's Historical Sketches. 


assumed a more foul or audacious form 
than in the eulogies lavished upon t)ie 
new government at the expense of Lord 
Wellesley's Irish administration. That 

government, it was said, never would 
ave pasbed the coercion act of 1833 ! 
Indeed! But that coercion aqt c^me 
from Lord Melbourne's own office, when, 
as Home Secretary, he presided over the 
Irish department ; the only mitigation 
of the act having been eflFected by the 
government of 1834, on Lord Wellesley's 
suggestion. The successor of Lord 
'Wefiesley, it was also said, for the first 
time administered the erovernment fairly 
and favourably towards the Catholics. 
Indeed I but Lord Wellesley first brought 
forward Catholics for the higher offices 
in the law, and continually propounded 
measures in their favour, which for some 
reaton or other were never carried into 
effect. There are two classes of persons 
who must be covered with shame upon 
reading such passages as the followm^, 
extracted from his lordship's despatch 
of September, 1834 ; the vile calumnia- 
tors of Lord Welleslev as never having 
given the Catholics fair play, and those 
who suffered their supporters to varnish 
over their weakness by an invidious con- 
trast of their doings with his, profiting 
by the constantly repeated falsehood 
that they were the first who ever treated 
with justice the professors of a religion 
to which the bulk of the people be- 

He then cites an unpublished pas- 
sage from a dispatch of the viceroy^ 
recommending a larger promotion of 
the Roman Catholic lawyers and others, 
as an important step towards the " pa- 
cification of Ireland/' and proceeds — 

'* In making public this remarkable 
document, I violate no official confi- 
dence ; for though I held the great seal 
at the time when this important corres- 
pondence passed, I was not, owing to 
some accident, made acquainted with 
any part of it until the present time 
(1843). I am therefore wholly free 
from the responsibility of having ne- 
fflected so material a communication. 
When the ministers mot in cabinet at 
the end of October, they had hardly 
time left, before their dismissal, to ma- 
ture any plan such as that which Lord 
Wellesley so earnestly reconunended ; 
but some of those ministers, aware of 
that plan, must have felt that they re- 
ceived a strange piece of good fortune, 
if not of very strjct justice, when they 
found themselves all of a sudden, in 
May, 1835, zealously supported by the 
traducert of Lord Wellesley, and upon 
the express ground of their being just 
to the Caioolics, whom he had never 

thought of relieving. I have repeatedly, 
in my place, while these ministers were 
present and in power, denounced the 
gross injustice and the scandalous false- 
hood of those their supporters, who 
professed to prefer them to Lord Grey's 
government and mine, becauiie we had 
passed a coercion bill trAicA had the 
entire concurrence and the cordial gup^ 
port of the very ministers now declared 
to be incapable of suffering such a mea- 
sure ; and I have expressed my asto- 
nishment that any cla*$ of men could 
submit to receive support upon suck 
gronnds, without at once declaring that 
the blame and the praise were alike 
falsely bestowed ; but I was not on 
these occasions aware of the extreme to 
which this falsehood was carried, as 
regarded Lord Wellesley's admioistra- 
tion, and I was not till now informed of 
the extraordinary self-command which 
my illustrious friend had shown in suf- 
fering all such imputations without any 
attempt to protect himself from their 

So much for Lord Wellesley's me- 
rits and sufferings; the statesman 
who triumphed in boundless India, to 
find the diminutive problem of Ireland 
beyond his solution 1 That he was ill- 
treated, is highly probable ; but it must 
be confessed that there is a good deal 
rather savage in the temper of his vin- 
dicator towards the treacherous fricDds 
of both ; and future historians most 
learn to balance his statements on this 
topic carefully. Even in this volume, 
we must honestly admit that there are 
passages which could scarcely stand 
searching analysis ; written, palpably, 
with a pen dipped in the gall of bitter 
recollections; and, as we could im- 
agine, shouted out to an amanuensis in 
an ideal House of ^Lords, and in pre- 
sence of a phantasmal Melbourne. 

But we must not make his lordship 
provide an undue proportion of our 
monthly bouquet for the pensive public 
The book before us forms, certainly, 
no extraordinary manifestation of ge- 
nius ; but it is, on the whole, not un- 
worthy of its very extraordinary au- 
thor. It is imbued with a spirit dis- 
tilled from long, real, and varied 
experience in public afiairs; and it 
contiuns the opinions of a man whose 
judgment, though not altogether clear 
of inevitable prejudice, it would be 
wholly idle to attempt to undervalue, 
on any question connected with the 
parliamentary history of England for 
the last and the present generation. 


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Repeal MovemefU-^'-ihe Prosecution. 



The first act of the drama has drawn 
to a close. The traversers and the 
crown prosecutors have at length joined 
issae ; and before the close of the pre- 
sent month, the residt of the trials 
must be known. Then will it be seen 
whether or not the ordinary course 
of law is sufficient to vindicate an out- 
raged constitution and an insulted em- 

Why the career of the agitator 
should have been hitherto permitted, 
without a vigorous effort on the part 
of ^e constituted authorities to arrest 
Imn in his course of mischief, we are 
not sufficiently in the confidence of 
government to understand. Doubtless, 
there were good, or at least plausible 
reasons for it The coming session 
will disclose much. Ministers will, no 
doubt, be taxed with having created, 
by their sufferance, the evils which 
they affect to deplore, and for the re- 
moval of which they may be compelled 
to ask for extra-constitutional powers. 
They will, it is to be hoped, be ready 
with their answer. What that an- 
swer may be, it is not for us to divine. 
But a whig-radical opposition could 
scarcely find much fault with a ten- 
derness on their part for constitu- 
tional rights, and an unwillingness to 
interfere with the free expression of 
public opinion, as long as it was at all 
compatible with the public safety. It 
is, moreover, manifest, that even while 
the monster meetings were suffered to 
go on, precautions were taken against 
those outbreaks which they seemed 
calculated to provoke ; and although 
it might be impossible to prevent a 
massacre, if a sunultaneous rising of 
the r^iealers took pkice, the triumph 
of the blood-thirstv miscreants would 
be but i^rt-lived, and they would 
soon yield to firitish power a sulky 
and construned obedience. 

There is no doubt that in the war 
dOTartment, the great man who pre- 
sides has done his duty. We do not 
believe that there was a single contin- 
goicy unprovided for, except the one 
a^ve supposod. It is true the tre- 
mendoas gatherings by which the 
peace of uie country has been dis- 
turbed, could not have taken place as 
they baye» without striking terror into 

the hearts of the scattered Protestants 
and loyalists in those districts where, 
either from the absence of military 
force, or of sufficient numbers, they 
were, comparatively, unprotected. To 
them it must have appeared that, with 
ministers, ** madness ruled the hour ;" 
or they would not have been thus 
abandoned to the ci^ricious forbear- 
ance of wanton and exulting adversa- 
ries, whose very "tender mercies*' were 
cruel; nor is it for us to vindicate 
the perfect wisdom of a procedure, of 
which the consequences might have 
been so awfully calamitous ; but this 
we must aver, that the real nature of 
the disease under which Ireland has 
long laboured, could never be so tho- 
roughly known as not to be mistaken 
for any other, if it were not permitted 
to manifest its hidden virulence in the 
manner it has ; and that many would 
remain sceptical as to the causes of 
that fierce agitation by which society 
has been convulsed and torn, if any 
doubt was suffered to remain upon the 
agency by which it was accomplished, 
or the views which were uppermost 
in the minds of its promoters. What 
was that agency ? The Romish priest- 
hood. What are these views ? Sepa- 
ration from England, the downfall of 
Protestantism, and the ascendancy of 
the Romish superstition in Ireland. 
Can any man naux doubt this ? Can 
any man now pretend to believe that 
mere agrarian grievances could have 
thus stirred up society from its lowest 
depths, and organised a fierce demo- 
cracy against Great Britain and its 
rulers— the Celt against the Saxon— 
the religion of Loyola against the re- 
ligion of the Gospel. No. None but 
the veriest simpletons can now deny 
that the repeal agitation is but one of 
the forms in which popery wages war 
against the object of its eternal hate ; 
and that if every grievance, or quasi 
grievance, which merely affected the 
relation between landlord and tenant 
were to-morrow completely redressed, 
all that would not reach the seat of 
the disease, and there must still re- 
main grounds of discontent and causes 
of turbulence which must be produc- 
tive of innumerable evils. 

*< Pay the priests,*' say the ready 

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Repeal Movement-^k9 Proie^uHpfU 


reckoners in politics, " and all will be 
well." We have already, and on more 
than one occasion, too fully exposed 
the futility of such a notion, to render 
it necessary to go over the same 
ground again. Those who desire to 
see the question of a Romish stipen- 
diary priesthood in Ireland fully dis- 
cussed, according to the measure of 
our humble ability, we refer to our 
number of December, 1834. They 
will there, if we do not egregiously 
deceive ourselves, see, that the pro- 
posed remedy would only aggravate 
the disease ; and that it is not more 
objectionable in a moral and religious 
point of view, than it would he, 
politically, unadvisable and inexpedi- 
ent. We, therefore, dismiss that as 
a notion which no sane politician, who 
is thoroughly acquainted with the state 
of this country should, for a moment, 
entertain. In point of fact, the po- 
pish, as a religious system, is verging 
in Ireland towards its latter end. Of 
this, to the discerning observers, there 
are many unambiguous symptoms; 
and it would be still more clearly ma- 
nifest, were it not for the political sti* 
mulants, so unsparingly administered, 
by which it is kept alive. None but 
those who know the working of it in this 
country, can understand the financial 
difficulties with which it has to strug- 
gle, or the growing reluctance which 
prevails to comply with the exactions 
of its vulgar, insolent, and domineer- 
ing priesUiood. What they are, in 
grain, from their bishops to the very 
humblest of their body, and through 
all their ramifications, has been clearly 
exhibited during the unchecked ca* 
reer of the repeal agitation, which 
they really deemed, and intended to 
be, sufficiently formidable to terrify 
Great Britain into an acquiescence with 
their views. Never would they have 
shown themselves in their true co- 
lours, if they did not fully believe 
that the ball was at length at their 
feet, and that they had only to raise 
a shout of clamorous defiance to have 
all their extravagant demands coin* 
plied with. This they were encou- 
raged to hope for, by the unlooked- 
for concession of '29. They never 
could understand the conduct of the 
Duke of Wellington and Sir Robert 
Peel, on that occasion, but as a craven 
iorrtiider of principle, under the in- 
fluence of bate fear* Sach» and no 

other, is the aspect under which that 
great concession to justice and reason, 
as no doubt these eminent statesmen 
deemed it to be, has been viewed ; 
and they have fondly persuaded them- 
selves that by a repetition of the same 
violence, similar concessions might be 
still further extorted. For a clear 
manifestation of this spirit, so unequi- 
vocal as to flash conviction upon the 
most sceptical, we are indebted to 
what certainly did appear to us a most 
culpable supineness on the part of our 
rulers. Possibly their object waa ten- 
tative, to sound the depths of the con* 
spiracy, and to ascertain the real cha- 
racter and objects of an agitation 
which, to all outward seeming, was 
scarcely less irrational than it was 
wicked. If this be so, the suocesi of 
the experiment has been complete. No 
one can now misunderstand the end 
and the motives of the sacerdotal re- 
pealers. Talk of satisfying them bj 
reasoning with them respecting the 
mischief and the dangers of repeal, 
and the unreasonableness of expecting 
that it could be productive of any ad- 
vantage ! You might as well attempt 
to reason the monomaniac out of all 
belief in the most cherished of his 
hallucinations. The repeal mania ia 
not a matter of opinion ; it is an ob- 
ject of faith. It has not been taken 
up from consideration of profit and 
loss. Its charms have not consisted, 
either more or less, in prospective 
posted and legered advantages. The 
intense nationality out of which it has 
arisen, and upon which it depends, 
utterly laughs to scorn all attempts 
to put it down by reasonings merel j 
grounded upon a balance of trade. 
The rooted hatred of Great Britain, 
and of her laws, and, akove aU, ^f 
HEB RELIGION, which posscsses and 
actuates the leading demagogues and 
their priestly allies, would enable them 
willingly to bear even great loss and 
misery themselves, if so they might 
behold their haughty mistress crip^ed 
or degraded. All this it might be 
very difficult to impress upon the 
minds of an unreflecting public, if 
recent events bad not stripped the 
popbh faction in this country of all 
the glozing plausibilities behuod which 
their real character had lain conceal- 
ed. Ifow, thanks to rq>eal agitatioi^ 
they are known. The forbearance of 
govemmeat* which was mistaken for 

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Repeal Movement — the Proeecuiion. 


timiditTy has drawn out a manifesta- 
tion of that hidden vinilence, which 
might otherwise have been concealed. 
£/ ita unexpected flrmnefs thej have 
been daunted, and feel that they wtre 
premature, at leaat, in the braggadocio 
attitude which they had assumed. And 
if some doubt did not as yet rest upon 
the intentions of government, which 
still leaves a hope that, by a continu- 
ance of their present organisation, the 
repeal agitation may yet prosper, we 
do not entertain a doubt that it would 
foe universally abandoned. It rests 
with government to prove, by their 
conduct, whether or not such a hope 
is vain. They have now an opportu- 
nity, if they avail themselves of it, of 
putting the most seditious and dange- 
rous form of anti- Anglicanism down, 
and for ever. But any vacillation on 
their part would be ruin. Any over- 
ture of accommodation, by which they 
might hope to draw into peaceful 
eourses a priesthood who have made 
themselves troublesome as agitators, 
would be universally regarded as a 
symptom of weakness, Drom which the 
very worst consequences might ensue. 
The seditious, if they took the bribe, 
would not take it for the purpose 
for which it would be given. They 
would take it for a diametrically op- 
posite purpose. They would take it 
as a contribution levied upon the ene- 
my, by which they would be only the 
better enabled to carry on the war. 
They would take it as one of those 
concessions of infatuation from which 
thoy have, heretofore, reaped no small 
advantage ; fully determined that no 
eorrespoading concession should be 
made on their part ; but, on the con- 
trary, that the more they were en- 
eouraged the less tractable would they 
become, and that government should 
find* when any fitting future opportu- 
nity arose, that they had only <' hired 
their masters." 

While it is morally certain that to 
take up the Romish priesthood in the 
manner proposed, would be to cut the 
stick by which we were to be cud- 
gelled ourselves; it is no less true 
that by treating them in a very diffe- 
rent wav, they might be converted in- 
to gooa sabjects. And by this we 
do not mean that any undue severity 
should be practised against them; 
but only that such a steady rule of 
tov^mnant should b« adopts m 

would make them, and all others, feel 
that it was no longer profitable, per- 
haps not even safe, to be found in a 
systematic opposition to the law. Let 
them feel that the day has gone by when 
the British minister will any longer co- 
quet with treason. Let them be made 
to feel that the great interests and in- 
stitutions of the empire must be sup- 
ported ; ujith their help, if they are 
disposed fairly and honestly to give it, 
but ttithout their help if it should be 
withheld. The very moment they be- 
held the government thus firmly re- 
solved to maintain the integrity of the 
empire, and to uphold, upon their an- 
cient foundations, the church and state 
— that instant they will regard all the 
seditious objects upon which they are 
at present bent, as utterly beyond 
their attainment. It is only because 
they have been taught to believe the 
government either cowardly, or pow- 
erless, to resist their importunate de- 
mands, that they have been hitherto 
amongst the foremost in the work of 
sedition. O'Connell has agitated be- 
cause he has found agitation a gainful 
trade. If they have agitated, it is 
because they hoped it would prove a 
profitable speculation. But when they 
plainly see that the thing which they 
aimed at is not to be accomplished ; 
that rail how, or as long as they may, 
they will never rail the seal off the 
bond which has ratified the legislative 
union ; they are not such blinded en- 
thusiasts as to rush madly upon self- 
destruction ; and they will contentedly, 
and even thankfully, acquiesce in a 
state of things which all their endea- 
vours cannot change. 

This, Sir Robert Peel may rest 
assured, is the only mode in which he 
can successfully carry on the govern- 
ment of Ireland. If he attempt to 
govern it by means of the Romish 
priests, as did his predecessors, who 
were entirely dependent upon them, he 
will find, as they found, that instead 
of their being his instruments in the 
government of the one country, he 
will be theirs in the government of the 
other* But, if the steady rule of law 
be observed, and if the turbulent man, 
whether lay or sacerdotal, be held in 
strict subjection to it — if a demoraliz- 
ing agitation, which threatens rebel- 
lion, and is fruitful in massacre, and 
for which no constitutional pretext 
can b# found* whiob might not be 

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Repeal Movement — the Prosecution. 


found equally for altering the succes- 
sion, or even subverting the monarchy — 
if this be met with the indignant 
denouncement which it deserves, and 
if all the energies of government are 
put forth for its suppression, a very 
little time will see a rapid subsidence 
of the troubled waters ; and the very 
individuals who are now most forward 
to stir up in the people a spirit of 
revolt, will be the readiest to proffer 
their aid to a government which no 
longer needs their helpi in keeping an 
ignorant and disorderly multitude with- 
in the bounds of a dutiful allegiance. 

We know not how far these views 
of ours, not now for the first time put 
forward, will have influence with our 
rulers. But every day that we have 
lived has only confirmed us in their 
truth, and every deviation from them 
has only servea to satisfy us that the 
contrary courses are fraught with 
ruin. It would, we know, be an idle 
thing to endeavour to impress upon 
a latitudinarian generation the sinfuU 
ness of adopting and giving perma- 
nency to a system of error, in the hope 
of turning it to some account against 
the machinations of the demagogue, 
and in shaping the ends of temporal 
government, rough hew them how the 
agitator may. We have confined our- 
selves, therefore, to the attempt to 
show that no such ends are to be 
attained by it ; that no solid advan- 
tage should be hoped for by the states- 
man from bribing disloyalty and sedi- 
tion ; that by so doing he will be only 
adding additional ingredients to the 
cauldron of discord, and causing the 
" bubble, bubble, toil and trouble," 
to increase, until the elements of strife 
have obtained a fearful mastery, gene- 
rating that universal confusion, and 
that wild uproar, 

*• Where cbaot umpire siU, 
And by dechlon moreembroQitborny.** 

But we must add, that if a ministry 
were infatuated enough to persevere in 
a policy so suicidal, there exists in the 
mmd of moral and enlightened Eng- 
land a feeling which would rise against 
such an unwise and pernicious course, 
and convince them that, at any rbk, 
they should not be any longer permit- 
ted to peril the security of the altar 
and the throne, and to compromise 
the destinies of this great empire. 
We have abready observed that no 

reasoning upon the subject of repeal* 
founded merely upon considerations of 
a trading or financial character^ can 
be expected to produce any effect in 
the way of abating their ardour upon 
the blinded and enthusiastic mass of 
repealers. To argue with such men, 
as though they were the dupes of their 
own erroneous calculations and rea- 
sonings, would be to mistake, entirely, 
the nature of their case. They are 
not the votaries of the repeal deluuon 
because of the force of such arguments 
as are employed in that cause; but 
such arguments appear to them fbrct- 
ble, because they are already the vota- 
ries of the repeal delusion. Those 
who belong to what has been hap- 
pily denominated ''the Finn Ma-Coul 
school of Irish politics,*' live in a 
region so far estranged from all the 
practical realities of life, that thej 
are quite inaccessible to the foroe 
of reasonings which would carry full 
conviction to more rational hearers. 
But now that, by the vigour of go- 
vernment, a decided check hat been 
given to the movement, there are many 
who have suffered themselves to be 
heedlessly drawn, and some who have 
been coerced into the ranks of repeal, 
who may be disposed to open their ears 
to statements which would have met 
from them but little attention, had the 
pending prosecutions not been thought 
of. For their sakes, therefore, and 
with a view to aid in the laudable en> 
deavour to break the spell by which 
they have been bound, we proceed to 
make some extracts from recent publi- 
cations, from which, we think, it will 
very clearly appear, that the union with 
Great Baitain is not that monster 
grievance which Mr. 0*Connell repre- 
sents it to be to his deluded hearers. 
And first, we have before us the 
pamphlet of one who styles himself 
" an Irish Catholic,** and whidi we 
look upon as symptomatic of the re- 
action which has taken place, as we 
have no reason to believe it would have 
appeared, had the career of the agita- 
tor not been arrested. This writer 
presents us with a brief view of the 
doings of the Irish parliament from 
the period of the Scottish union down 
to the stirring events of 1782— and it 
does, undoubtedly, show how very 
little such self-government as was then 
enjoyed accomplished for the improve- 
ment of Ireland. This portion of his 

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Repeal Movement — the Prosecution. 


sobiecty however, is not treated either 
with abilitj or fairness. Such a par- 
liament as existed then, is not such a 
one as would exist if repeal were car- 
ried now ; and a domestic legislature 
would noty perhaps, be less acceptable 
to those who at present desire it, be- 
cause it must consist predominantly of 
that party, who would be nothing loath 
to miake reprisals for the penal laws. 

That a union between Great Britain 
and Ireland was contemplated by our 
most enlightened men long and fre- 
quently bmre it actually took place, 
is very clearly shown by reference to 
the opinions of Berkeley, Burke, Lord 
Chatham, and Dr. Franklin, by whom 
it was spoken of as an event most de- 
nrable. Indeed, the last wished to 
embrace the colonies in one compre- 
hensive union with the parent state ; 
and that before the present facilities of 
steam communication, which would 
render such a project comparatively 

The following is the opinion of 
Adam Smith — an authority, surely, 
above all suspicion — written when com- 
posing his gretkt work, " The Wealth 
of Nations.'* 

*" By a union with Great Britain,* 
said the celebrated Adam Smith, in bis 
* Wealth of Nations/ < Ireland would 
gain, besides the freedom of trade, other 
advantages much more important, and 
which would much more than compen- 
sate any increase of taxes which mi^ht 
accompany that union. By the union 
with EngUind, the middling and inferior 
ranks of people in Scotland gained a 
comi^ete deliverance from tbe power of 
an aristocracy which had always op- 
pressed them. By a union with Great 
Britain, the greater part of the people 
of all ranks in Ireland would eain an 
equally complete deliverance nrom a 
much more oppressive aristocracy — an 
aristocracy, not formed like that of 
Scotland, m the natural and respectable 
distinctions of birth and fortune, but in 
the moat odious of all distinctions, those 
oi reUffious and political prejudice — 
distinctions which, more than any other, 
made both the insolence of the oppres- 
sor, and indignation of tbe oppressed ; 
and idbich commonly render the inhabi- 
tants of the same country more hostile 
to one another than those of different 
eonntries are. Without a union with 
Great Britain, the inhabitants of Ire- 
land are not likely, for many ages, to 
consider tbemsdves as one people.' '* 

It is curious now to look back to 
some of the grounds alleged as objec- 
tions to the union when it was proposed. 
Mr. Fox objected to it, because he 
thought it would always give the minis- 
ter a venal majority of Irish members ! 
Sir Robert Peel, the father of the 
present premier, at the head of the 
manufacturing interest, objected to it, 
because the cneap food and labour in 
Ireland would give our artisans and 
manufacturers an advantage over the 
English which would enable us to 
undersell them in the foreign market 1 
Alas ! how effectually have our agita- 
tors prevented such an advantage being 
realized ! 

Of Mr. O'Conneirs versatility of 
sentiment upon the subject, the follow- 
ing, as compared with his recent say- 
ings and doings, will exhibit amusing 
specimens. Our readers do not re- 
quire to be told the motives of the 
enormous mendicant agitator. His 
friends were then in office, and their 
convenience was consulted by keeping 
the foul fiend of repeal down. They 
are now out of office, and something 
was to be thought of by which their 
successors might be disturbed. 

" We now turn to an authority which 
must be wholly incontrovertible, that of 
Daniel O'Connell ! 1 That authority is 
conclusive on two points ; first. That 
repeal and separation are synonymous. 
And, secondly, That separation would 
be ruinous to the country. His autho- 
rity is entitled, at the present period, to 
peculiar weight, for we have this so- 
lemn declaration from his lips, as a le- 
gislator in the House of Commons, on 
the 2nd July, 1882 :— • There is no part 
of my life in which it can be said, that 
I have been of one opinion one day, and 
changed it the next. 

''Accordingly, the following is Mr. 
O'Conneirs deliberate opinion, delivered 
under the most solemn obligation, be- 
fore a parliamentary committee, in 
1825 : — * I believe tbe propensity of the 
Catholic clergy is very much towards 
an unqualified submission to the law 
and to the government whatever it may 
be. . . . As to the question 
whether the Roman Catholic clergy of 
Ireland would be inclined to accept of 
a provision h'om the state, I am sure 
that if an equalisation of civil rights 
took place they would accept of it ; and 
that the Catholic gentry would concur 
with them in a desire that they should, 
the object being to connect the CaUiolio 

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Repeal Movement — the Proseeution* 


clergy and laity of Irelar.d with the go- 
vernment itself; to embody them, as it 
were, as a portion of tlie state, and to 
ffive the government what we would 
desire, a reasonable and fair inHuence 
over the Catholic clergy. 
I am thoroughly convinced that the ob- 
ject of the Catliolic clergy and laity of 
Ireland is, sincerely and honestly to 
concur with the goverumf^nt in every 
measure that shall increase the strength 
of the government in Ireland, so as to 
consolidate Ireland with England com- 
pletely, and in every beneficial aspect.' 

" After Mr. O'Connell had become a 
member of the legislature, we have the 
following emphatic declaration from 
him in parliament, on the 6th of June, 
1832 : — • I have only to repeat my con- 
viction, that I should regard the sepa- 
ration of Ireland from England as the 
greatest evil that could befall the two 
countries. The continuance of that 
eonnection is a matter of the highest 
importance, and I look with horror and 
affright to an increased tendency, on the 
part of Ireland, to get out of the hands 
of this country I' 

" The * Mirror of Parliament,* vol. 
iii., p. 3,482, displays the following 
jicene, which occurred in the House of 
Commons on the 21st of June, 1833: — 

*'Mr. O'Connell. — 'I never pledged 
myself to my constituents to support a 
measure, and afterwards found it con- 
Tenient to abandon it.' 

" An Honourable Member • Did 

you not pledge yourself to repeal the 
union ?* 

** Mr. O'Connell. — * I deny it indig- 

** In answer to an address presented 
to him bv the Trades* Union in Dublin, 
on the 29th of September, 1885, Mr. 
O'Connell said : — * They [the Orange- 
men] wtmt to the government, and said, 
that if they would support them, they 
would prevent repeal ; all they want is, 
that Ireland should agitat-a for a repeal 
of the Union ; but we know our inte- 
rest better than to gratify them in that 
particular.' — (Loud cheering.) In or- 
der to satisfy them that the union was 
complete, he thus doKcribed the friendly 
feelings of the British people towards 
Ireland : — * I wish I could express to 
you the enthusiasm and delight with 
which I »vas received throughout Eng- 
land and Scotland. (Loud oheei'S.) I 
do assure you I never was better re- 
ceived in Ireland, and, Ood knows, I 
thought it impo!^sible to be received any 
where else as I have been received here.* 
—(Loud cheering.) 

*• In his speech in the House of Com- 
mons, on the address, Thursday, 24th 
February, 1686, Mr. O'Connell used the 

following language :—• Do justiw to 
Ireland, and you have nothing to appre- 
hend from the repeal, but every thin^ 
to hope ; henceforward separation was 
at an end I What was it that the peo* 
pie of Ireland wanted ? ^Simoly to be- 
come a part of England.* 'Tne justice 
to Ireland which was then to terminate 
all idea of separation, was a municipal 
bill, to enable Mr. O'Connell to exhibit 
himself in a cocked hat and gold chain, 
as Lord Mayor of Dublin. 

" In April, 1838, Mr. O'Connell that 
addressea the people of Nottingh&m s— 

* I have the pleasure of informing yon 
that Irish affairs are now treated in the 
House of Commons with proper respect 
and attention.' Again : ~* I come nere 
to form the humble but permanent link 
which is to bind three great nations to- 
gether — nations which have, alas ! been 
hitherto separated from the basest mo- 
tives, and with the worst of conse- 

Juences.' Again: — ' I feel asgured that 
might, with conftdenoe, announce to 
my fellow-countrymen in Ireland, that 
the sea uhich had before divided the 
two countries was effectually dried np, 
and that they now formsMi but one 

" In the same month of April, Mr. 

O'Connell asked the people ot Hull : 

' The question is, who are to be the re- 
paalers, or rather the separatists ? If 
the House of Lords presume to declare 
for the repeal, or rather the separation, 
I implore of you to knit more closely 
the union with Ireland!' 

"The following is part of Mr. O'Con- 
nell's address to the people of Ipswich, 
in May, 1836;— ■• I own at once, that 
until I had been some time in the British 
parliament, I did entertain a belief 
which, though now dispelled, I conld 
not shake ofT;* ' up to that period, I will 
own to you, I had believed that Ireland 
ought to have an iudependent legisla- 
ture of her own, and that no other 
would do her justice. It was the con- 
viction on my mind ; it has hardly va- 
nished as yet ; but powerful influences 
have come over my mind, and this even- 
ing is one of the strongest proofs that 
/ have been mintaken,* — (Loud cheering ) 

" On the 8th of June, 1836, he thus 
addressed the people of Middlesex : 

* For a considerable portion of my life 
I had been endeavouring to rend that 
parchment ufiion ! Why? Because I 
was unable to rouse sufficient English 
attention to the real nature ot Ireland, 
and the oppression she endured. Did I 
wish for it now ? God forbid I' 

•• In his address to the electors of 
Westminster, dated fVom Darrynane, 
December 22nd, 1836, Mr. O'Connell 
declared;— « We have banished the en. 

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Repeal Movement^the Prosecution. 


thaiia?tic vision of Irish nationality;' 
and he assured them that present pros- 
pwts * afford the fairest hope and pro- 
mise of gradually and safely ameliora- 
tinff all our institutions ; of amending 
ail that is defective ; of preserving all 
that is valoable; of cousolidating all 
the parts of this great empire in one 
real and practical union of mntual be- 
oeSts and universal prosperity.' 

** At an anti-slavery meeting at Bir- 
min^^am, on the 28th of January, 1837, 
llr. O'Connell made the following an- 
noancement : — • I had struggled for the 
liberty of Ireland only that I might be 
able to assist in the struggle for Eng- 
land. I would now forget Ireland, 
and only think of her as moorporated 
with England. I had scarcely that 
evening alluded to Ireland, for there 
9tts now no Ireland. She was identified 
Kith England; no longer a province, but 
a part of thit mighty empire /' — (Loud 

" In November, 1838, Mr. O'Connell 
pledged himself to the people of Dublin 
*tbat there was nothing which the legis- 
lature could bestow, that they could not 
obtain through the instrumentality of 
the present government ;' and in his 
adJross to the people of Ireland, dated 
the 28th of June, 1837, he thus assured 
them: — * To make the union real and 
effective, we have the benevolent wishes 
of the pure-minded sovereign, we have 
the full assistance of the ministry, and 
we have the voice of all that is liberal 
and enlightened in England and Scot- 

•• On the 3Ist of February, 1840, he 
Tery properly demanded a reply to this 
Qo.'stion in the House of Commons : — 
Is there any difference between an Irish 
and an English majority ? Who is the 
Hepealer but the man that makes the 
difference?* The union answers there 
ii none ! 

** In the debate on Irish tithes, on the 
15th of May, 1840, Mr. O'Connell in- 
dig:nantly, and justly, arraigned Sir 
^rdlj 'Wilmot thus :— * He said the 
"bigs, in 1688, had driven away a Ca- 
tholic king, and he would assist in dri- 
y'm-^ a Catholic opposition from the se- 
riate. If this be the way in which the 
honourable baronet pleases to talk of 
the Catholic party in that house, I beg 
to tell him that we have to the full as 
Rood a right to be here as he hat.* 
Whence is that right derived ? From 
the act of union I 

"On the 25th of February, 1841, he 
delivered these memorable words in the 
House of Commons ; — * I am as sin- 
cerely, as truly desirous to preserve the 
connexion between the two countries as 

any man who listens to me. I admit to 
you, that I am convinced that connec- 
tion may be eminently useful ; that 
there cannot be a severance without 
danger; and that if that severance 
were to take place through violence or 
blood, it woula be a crime too great for 
execration 1' 

** Thus is Mr. O'Connell's challenge, 
over and over again repeated, • Will 
any bodv stand up for the union ?' an- 
swered Irom his own lips I 

** With these declarations before otir 
eyes — ^when we remember * the magni- 
ficent assemblages, the majestic dis- 
plays, the organisation of moral and 
physical force, the gorgeous gather- 
mgs, the mighty movements, the armies 
of female Repealers, the peaceful arrays 
of teetotalers, the glorious Repeal war- 
dens, the discipline of the O'Connell 
police, the marches and musters of the 
mounted Repeal volunteers, the meet- 
ings of fairies, the dinners, the ban- 
quets, the bands and the banners,' the 
harangues, the threats, the defiance, 
the denunciations, the swaggering, the 
bullying, the abuse, the songs of tri- 
umph, the Ossianic bombast, the boast- 
ing rigmarole, and the empty bragga- 
docio of Mr. O'Connell, with which the 
public have been delugad, through the 
press, for months; and above all, the 
vow registered in heaven, to expunge 
that fatal measure from the statute- 
book — to the repeal of which — or ra- 
ther separation — he looks with horror 
and affright ; are we not well warrant- 
ed in exclaiming, in the words of Mr. 
Fox, ' Oh, calumniated crusaders, how 
rational and moderate were your views 1 
. Oh, tame and feeble Cer- 
vantes, with what a timid hand have 
you painted the portrait of a disordered 
imagination I !' *' 

It may, however, be very consistently 
maintained, that O'Connell's forbear- 
anoe during the regime of the Whigs 
was amply compensated by the mea- 
sures of that faction, which would, had 
they continued in power, have eventu- 
ated in the ruin ot the empire. They 
did his business so well while in ofiice, 
that he could afford himself to neglect 
it for a season ; fully persuaded that 
when the time arrived for applying his 
battering-ram again, it would not be 
less effectual because directed against 
dilapidated institutions. 

In the debate which took place in 
the House of Commons in 1834, and 
into which the agitator was forced by 
a restive member of the tail, Mr. Fer- 

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Repeal Movement — the Prosecution. 


g^ 0*CoDnor, such an exposure was 
made, bv the present Lord Alonteagley 
of the fallacious grounds upon which 
repeal was advocated^ that its great 
Coryphoeus felt himself utterly over- 
thrown in argument^ and never ven- 
tured to introduce any specific motion 
on the subject into that asssembly 
again. He complained, indeed, that 
the tables which were referred to were 
prepared for the express purpose of 
defeating him. 

•* There is, however," the Irish Catholic 
observes, **one important document, 
which does not appear to have been relied 
on in that debate, and which places so con- 
spicuously befor« the Irisn public the 
increased and increasing comforts of 
the people, that it may bo in itself al- 
most relind on as a conclusive answer 
to all Mr. O'Connell's lamentations. 
That document is the speech of Mr. 
Huskisson, the great trade minister, on 
the 7th of May, 1827, on General Gas- 
coy ne's motion for a committee to in- 
quire into the distressed state of the 
British commercial shipping interest ; 
when be thus expressed himself: — 
• With regard to the separate trade of 
Ireland, it is highly gratifying to find, 
that there has been a considerable in- 
crease in her intercourse with all parts of 
the world, particularly with the Baltic 
and the British possessions in North 
America. I rejoice exceedingl;^ at this 
improvement ; I hail the great increase 
in the consumption of timber in Ireland, 
not only as it regards the general inte- 
rest of our maritime relations, but as 
creating a strong presumption, that an 
increased proportion of tne population 
of that country possess the means of 
improving their habitations, and afford- 
ing themselves those comforts and en- 
joyments, to which the use of timber is 
in a great degree conducive.' This is 
demonstrated Dy the following official 
return, dated the 20th of March, 1827, 
of the loads of timber imported into 
Ireland from 178* to 1826, from the 
British possessions in America, and 

fVom the Baltic 

The return bej 

with 1785; 






9358 Lo« 

1795. . 


8,699 „ 

1799, . 


7355 „ 

1800. . 



13,250 „ 

1805, . 


19.576 „ 

1810, . 



S.190 ^ 

1815, . 


24,170 „ 



14W n 

1820. . 



6,165 „ 

1825, . 


14.107 „ 




29,458 „ 

'* The above is the official return 
from the Custom House, and is brought 
down only to 1826. Mr. O'Connell 
certainly cannot allege that it was pre- 
pared in 1827, before he was eligible to 
sit in parliament, to defeat his motion 
for repeal in 1834 It is in the power 
of the honourable and learned member, 
when he next visits St. Stephen's, to 
move for a continuation of that return 
to the present day, if he believe that it 
would be favourable to his arguments 
for repeal. Here is a tenfold advance 
from the *halcvon days,* in tho con- 
sumption of the article which most 
avails for ameliorating the condition, 
and improving the face of the country, 
both civic ana rural. As planting has 
been of late more general in Ireland, 
than at the period which immediately 
preceded the union, the use of native 
timber has also probably increased, al- 
though no doubt m a lesser degree ; but 
the advance in the consumption of tim- 
ber greatly exceeds the increase of po- 
pulation, and indicates a vast improve- 
ment in cultivated life. 

•* * Every new house,' said Lord Plun- 
ket, 'is a pledge of tranquillity and 
English connection.' Lord Monteagle 
was only enabled to give the progres- 
sive improvement from 1800 to 1831, in 
the erection of new houses in the fol- 
lowing cities and towns. The recent 
publication of the population census, 
enables us to pursue that inquiry to 
1841. Although framed upon the basis 
of the new municipal divisions, the cen- 
sus, at page 442, also fives the returns 
within tne ancient precmcts. 

From UieCenias of 1841. 


In 1800. 

In 1831. 

to 1831. 

In 1841. 


to 1841. 


to 1841. 












Digitized by LjOOQ IC 


Repeal Matement — t/ie Prosecution. 


" The summary of the census of 
1821, printed by order of parliament, 
dated the 22nd of February, 1822, en- 
ables us to supply a deficiency in Lord 

Montea^Ie's returns, as to the two prin. 
cipal cities, Dublin and Cork, at least 
since 1813. 

Fkoa fbe CciMus of 1821. 

ritwntbeCeMittof 1841. 



In 1813. 

In 1821. 

from 1813 
to 1821. 


within the 


precinct* In 




1821 and 





1813 and 


DobUnaty . 
Cork City . 






" It is to be regretted that we have 
no accurate returns from the date of 
the union ; but the increase in the prior 
period, in respect of Cork, would seem 
to justify, in some degree, the anticipa- 
tions entertained at the time of the 
passing of that measure. The increase 
m Dublin, from 1821 to 1841, is very 
striking; and we cannot forget, that 
within the same period the new and 
beautiful town of Kingstown has been 
erected in its immediate vicinity, con- 
taining, according to the same census, 
(pac^e 28,) 1,049 houses, which may be 
saiato be all now. The rural districts 
throughout the country have unques- 
tionably kept pace with the civic pre- 
cincts. Every observant eye must per- 
ceire the improved and improving style 
of building and architecture, in the pri- 
vate houses and public and religious 
edifices, as well throughout the country 
as in the towns and cities ; the great 
change for the better in the appearance 
of the shops ; in the displays, as well of 
the useful necessaries as of the orna- 
mental luxuries of life ; and the vast 
increase in private as well as public 
carriages ana vehicles of every descrip- 
tion. This improvement is progressive, 
as the intercourse both inland and with 
the sister island, increases. That in- 
crease must proceed more rapidly as 
the connection between the countries 
becomes more close and intimate.'* 

Nowi compare with this the follow- 
tng statement^ which we extract from 
the second part of Mr. Montgomery 
Martin's ** Ireland before and after the 
Union/' and say whether it does not 
bespeak considerable social improve- 

" The Rev. Mr. Whitelaw, minister 
of St. Catherine's oarish, Dublin, who, 
Vol. XXIIL— No. 133. 

a few years previous to the Union, pre- 
pared a valuable work on the state of 
Dublin, while engaged in making hb 
census of the population, affords the 
following melancholy illustration of the 
state of Dublin at that period. Mr. 
Whitelaw's evidence is to the following 
effect : — 

*' When he attempted to take the 
population of a ruinous house in Joseph's- 
lane, near Castle-market, he was inter- 
rupted in his progress by an inundation 
of putrid blood, alive 'with maggots, 
which had, from an adiacent yard, burst 
the back door, and filled the hall to a 
depth of several inches. By the help of 
a plank and some stepping-stones which 
he procured for the purpose (for the 
inhabitants, without any concern, waded 
through it) he reached the staircase. It 
had rained violently, and from the shat- 
tered state of the roof a torrent of water 
made its way through every floor from 
the garret to the ground. The sallow 
looks and filth of the wretches who 
crowded round him, indicated their situ- 
ation, though they seemed insensible to 
the stench, which he could scarcely sus- 
tain for a few minutes. In the garret 
he found the entire family of a poor 
working shoemaker, seven in number, 
lying in a fever, without a human bemg 
to administer to their wants. On Mr. 
iyhitelaw*s observing that his apart- 
ment had not a door, he informea him 
that his landlord, finding him unable to 
lay the week's rent in consequence of 
is illness, had the preceding Saturday 
taken it away, in order to force him to 
abandon the apartment. Mr. Whitelaw 
counted in this sty thirty-seven persons, 
and computed that its humane proprie- 
tor received out of an absolute ruin, 
which should be taken down by the ma- 
gistrates as a public nuisance, a profit 
rent of about £30 per annum, which he 


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Rtpeal Movement— the ProteeuttoH.^ 


exaot«d everjr Saturday night with un- 
feeling seventy. 

" It would not be possible to find such 
a parallel in Dublin at the present mo- 
ment, althou^ it might not bo difficult 
to do so in JSdinburgh, Glasgow, Li- 
verpool, Manchester, and perhaps in 

But there is no topic l^ which the 
deluded votaries of repeal have been 
more grossly abused, than that of the 
vaunted increase of Irish prosperity 
between the years 1782 and 1800, the 
only period during which we enjoyed 
an independent parliament. Upon this 
subject the very useful writer last re- 
ferred to thus observes^ 

" The effect of bounties was, doubt- 
less, to augment production ; and, pre- 
vious fo the period held up as the com- 
mencement or Irish prosperity (1782), 
the amount expended for this purpose 
was very great. Newenham says that 
the bounty paid on com exported from 
1741 to 1750 amounted to £1,514,962, 
an immense sum in those times. The 
bounties were for a time discontinued, 
and the average export of unmanufac- 
tured com of all sorts, during the years 
1771, 1772, and 1773, amounted to only 
31,423 barrels. Mr. Foster, the Chan- 
cellor of the Irish Exchequer, revived 
the system of bounties, and the export 
again rose m 1787. 1788, and 1789, to 
517,383 barrels ; and during the year 
ending March 1791, to 863,047 barrels. 

** By m^ans of Mr. Foster's measure 
a momentary stimulus was given to the 
export of corn. In 1789 the bounty 
paid thereon was £59,206; in 1783, 
bounties were enacted for canvas and 
coarse linen ; there was a bounty on the 
inland carriage of com to Dublin, 
amounthie; in 1780 to £77,800; there 
was another bounty on corn brought 
coastways to Dublin, which in 1789 
amounted to ^820,000 ; then there were 
bounties on Irish coals brought to Dub- 
lin, on sugar refined, on indigo imported, 
on silk, on fish, on flax, &c. In fact, 
the whole nation was taxed for the bene- 
fit of the city of Dublin ; add to which, 

several enormous frauds were prored to 
have been made use of in obtaining 
' com premiums,* and the standing com- 
mittee of the House of Commons for 
the distribution of bounties were, from 
their immaculate patriotism, compli- 
mented with the epithet of the ' Scram^ 
hling Committee!* 

** The Irish expenditure was annually 
augmented,* and public and private 
corruption became the order of the 

** It was scarcely to be expected that 
a system built up artificially, and sup- 
ported by injustice, should have been 
productive of general and perman^it 
advantage ; and, accordinglv, we find 
that even during the period so much 
lauded, and notwithstanding the facti- 
tious aid of bounties, the trade of Ire- 
land, so far from processing, actually 
declined. In illustration of this, let us 
examine the — 

Tonnage belonftng to Iridi Porta, •! tvo periods ef 
flre jt$n Mch, prcTiou* to the Union. 

Tears. Toni. 




1788 . 60,776 

1789 . 64^1 

1790 . 68,236 

1791 . 69.S33 

1792 . 69,667 

Total 332,178 



. 67,790 
. 68,169 
. 68,778 
. 66,678 
. 63,181 




" Here we see a decrease progres- 
sively accelerating, and amounting on 
three years to upwards of thirty-eight 
thousand tons ! The table exhibits the 
tonnage belonging to Irish merchants, 
and it evinces a strong proof of declin- 
ing mercantile prosperity. Another table, 
of ten years previous to the Union, is 
fuller and more convincing than the 
foregoing ; its totals are as follow : 

Reglftered Tonnage belonging to Ireland, at two 
periods of fire years each. 


No. of Ships. 


From 1790 to 1794 
From 1796 to 1799 








* Irish Expendititre: — 

£1,490,024 1796 

1,448,734 1797 

1,592,767 1798 

2,028,055 1799 

9,635,302 1800 





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Repeal Movemem^^Ae ProieeuHon* 


" The deerMM of the two last jears 
on the two first years stands thus : 

Tcm. Ships. Ton*. 

1790-51 . . 2310 . . 187,469 
1798-99 2,024 . 99,214 

DBOtm in two 7«n 286 


** Theso statements afd jot fbrther 
oorroborated by examining Uie number 
and tonnage of vessels built in Ireland 
during this period. 

Koaber of Vetteli, and Tttnimge thcroof, bailt In IreUnd Ibr ten jmn preceding the Union st two 
perlodf of Are yean eaob. 



No. of 







No. of Ship*. 









'* The totals of the period 




210 . 

. 9327 

lad . 


. 6,430 

Detrtw . . 88 . . 3,097 

" This diminution is the more strik- 
ing, from the fact (as will be shown in 
the sobsequent chapter) that the number 
of ressels built in Ireland sinoe the 
Uoion, and the tonnage thereof, has 
largely increased, and tney are still in« 

" We mar now proceed to examine 
tlw state of the exports from Ireland 
duing the period under consideration. 
And here let it be obserred, that these 
tabular statements are drawn from the 
aecorate statistics of M. C^ar Moreau, 
wliere the parliamentary papers, from 
which his statistics are deriyed, are 
M\j acknowledged. The Dublin Li« 
brary copy is quoted. 

Total OAckd Talne of the Exports of the Growth, 
Ptodaec, and MannfiKtnres of IreUmd, at two 
fcriodi of tre Tears each, prerions to the Union. 

in period. 



Yaloe. : 2nd period. 

£43^360 ' 



Tsld £24,645.783 ) 

lit period 
tad do. 

Total £23.018,688 



**A decrease of considerably more 
thtt a million and a half sterling on a 
period of only fife years, is a strange 
Wtoattoft of growing prosperity I** 

Let this be compared with the fol- 
lowing statement of the progressive 
increase of our shipping interest^ and 
our commercial and manafhcturing 
prosperity since the union ; and^ when 
taken in connection with the judicious 
observations with which it is intro- 
duced; surely nothing can be wanted to 
demonstrate the frantic absurdity of 
the repeale 

** Previous to the Union, every effort 
was made by the Irish parliament to 
aggrandise Dublin, at the expense of 
Belfast, Cork, Waterford, &c. This 
was so apparent, that the merchants at 
the outports were among the first to 
netition the Irish parliament and his 
Mf^esty for a legislatire junction with 
Great Britain. Dublhi had a monopoly 
of Ireland, as much as Paris had at one 
time of France, or London of Eneland 
previous to the rise of Liverpool, &c. 
The Union altered this unnatural state 
of things, and which might be aptly 
compared to an enlarged yiscus, the ' 
liver for instance, while the whole f^ame 
was weak, and dependent for existence 
on the repeated administration of stimu- 

** I commence an examination of the 
two periods, (prior and subsequent to 
the Union,) with the amount of tonnage 
belonging to the several ports of Ireland 
at the end of the last oentury, and at 
the latest period in Moreau's tables; 
and let it be remembered, that by the 
invention and increase of steam naviga- 
tion (the Greater part of which is owned 
by English and Scotch ports), one steam- 
ing vessel performs the duty of nearly 
ten sailing ones, and consequently the 

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Repeal Mtfvement^-'tke ProsecutioH* 

tmount of tonnage belongine to Irish 
ports would, were it not ^r a vast 

increase of commerce, 

be materiallj 

Tonnsf* belongtiig to, ud Begiitered at, the Mrenl Irtfh Port*, at periods of three ytan c«A, jtlm 





Increase be- 
tween the 
first and last 

Name of Port. 





and 42. 







Bclfoat . 







Londonderry . 














Publin . 



























Kinnle . 


























Kilnuh . 







Mevry . 














Tralee . 














Other Porta 







Total MA Twrnage-fc 

xcgtftered during 







thowperiods . ) 
Total Tonnage tnm\ 

Gieat Britain to V 


2,013,178 499317 




Ireland . . j 


The Tonnage for three years before the Union wa 
Pltto „ M ending 1842 . 

Increase on three years* tons 



** The foregoing table is a most im- 
portant one, in refutation of the asser* 
tion, that the Union has been a curse to 
Ireland. Here we find that even the 
tonnage belonging to the port of Dublin 
increased by more than nxtg-one thousand 
toM on a period of three years ; that 
Belfast augmented its shipping property 
by 128,000 tons ; and that almost every 
other outport has more than doubled or 
trebled its tonnage stitce the Union, rtz., 
Limerick, Newry, Wexford,^ London- 
derry, Drogheda, and Sligo ; in fact, on 
eTcry point of the Irish coast 1*' 

To the same effect is the following^ 
which we extract from the pamphlet 
of the ** Irish Catholic." 

** An unerring document demonstrates 
the rast increase, within a few years, of 
the maritime interest in Ireland. A 
return of the shippmg of the United 
Kingdom, moved tor by Mr. Waun and 
Sir Charles Napier, and ordered by the 
House of Commons to be printed, 26th 
April, and 27th June, 1843, furnishes 
the following decisive information. 

** Return of the number and tonnage 

of sailing vessels registered in the ports 
of Ireland on the 31 st of Deoemher, 



'* Like return of the number and ton- 
nage of steam vessels reg^terod in the 
ports of Ireland, on the 31st of Decern^ 
ber, 1842:— 



'* Both mal^e an aggregate of 201,597 
tons. A previous parliamentary paper 
shows the gross steam and sailing ton- 
nage of Ireland, on the 31st of I^oem- 
ber, 1838, to have been only 151,528 
tons; being an. increase, in four years, 
of 50,069 tons, beins only 4,ld3 tons 
less than the entire shipping of Ireland, 
under her domestic legislature, at the 
time of the union. Taking into consi- 
deration the greater number of voyages 
which steam- vessels, being independent 
of the winds, and not liM»le to be af- 
fected bv calms, as sailing vesseb are, 
are capable of making ; uteir capacity 
of transit and carriage, in the short 
voyages between Great Britain and Ire- 

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knd, to which aU Irish steamers are 
(onfiiied, maj be fatrljr estimated at a 
low trera^e of 4 to 1 per ton over sail- 
ioF Teasels. This estimate would en- 
title ns to multiply 18»176, the abore 
steam tomiage, by 4. This would make 
72,704 tons, which, being added to the 
present sailing tonnage, would make 
an segregate of 256,125 tons, affording 
nesrlj fire times as much capacity for 
trade in Irish bottoms, as at the close 
of the year 1800. The unprecedented 
adrance within the last five years, in- 
duces the most flattering anticipations 
of rapid proffressive improvement in 
future, when Uie country shall have be- 
come settled and devoted to useful and 
rational pursuits. 

*' The same official returns furnish us 
with (he means of ascertaining with ac- 
curacy the registered steam tonnage of 
the several ports in the British islands : 

Itel itetmtoBiM00 of th« port of London,) ^»oc. 

iBdodiDg rirer stttunen . . ) * ' '^^ 

Do. of the port of Llrerpool . 5,005 

Bo. of ths port of Brtalol 3,174 

I>o.of HbU— preebeljtbeMme. S,174 

I>a.ofth0portofOlMgDir 10,944 

Dft.oftbtportof DaUla . 11,040 

'* The population of London, as com- 
pared to Dublin, is supposed to be 
nearly as 8 to I ; the registered steam 
tonnage is only about Ij to 1. We 
kave the steam tonnage of Dublin ex- 
ceeding that of Glasgow; more than 
doubling that of Liverpool ; more than 
tliree times that of Bristol, or Hull ; 
ud nearly eaualling that of Liverpool, 
Bristol, and Hull combined. We have 
ilso the small town of Londonderry, 
with a steam tonnage of 2,663 tons ; 
more than one-half that of Liverpool, 
wd nearly equalling Bristol or Hull. 
The same returns supply similar informa- 
tion respecting sailing vessels. In sailing 
tonnage we have Belfast 49,497 tons, 
Marlj equal to all Ireland at the time 
of the union, greatly exceeding Bristol, 
W.825 tons, which itself but little ex- 
weds the sailing tonnage of Cork, 
54*324 tons. We have the united sail- 
me tonnage of Limerick and Waterford, 
88,970 tons, exceeding the united sailing 
tyonage of the three celebrated mari- 
tiae ports of Falmouth, Southampton, 
•nd Portsmouth, which together amount 
only to 31,828 tons. This is indeed a 
eheenng picture, when we reflect that 
jQ this recent and rapid advance, Ire- 
land had to encounter a competition 
^h the greatest maritime country in 
••0 world. 

Bat lest it should be said that the 
waount of tonnage built, belonging to, 
« entering a port, isafUIacious cri- 
^^^wm of progreMive ad?aBcei Mr. 

Montgomery Martin turns to the state 
of trade, which in value stands thus 
before and after the union — 


F^odi of Tea 


Vtaae of 

1790 to 1801 . 
1808 to 1813 . 

fMcremst on Utter 

1830 to 1840 . 





** Thus we find an increase of trade 
on ten ^ears immediately subsequent to 
the Union, to the value of upwards of 
thirty'seven mUion$ sterling." 

That a decline has taken place in 
some branches of our domestic manu- 
fiicture is very true ; but it is to be 
accounted fur by causes which have no 
reference whatever to a legislative 
union. They were either what may be 
called exotic manufactures, which sub- 
sbted upon the artificial stimulus of 
a bounty — thus exhibiting rather a 
hectic flush of a very diseased state of 
things, than the genuine glow of natu- 
ral prosperity, and which perished when 
the bounty was withdrawn ; or they 
were destroyed by the wicked and fran- 
tic combinations of the workmen. The 
following we take from the official re- 
port of the band-loom weavers' com- 
mission in 1840, and it is, the commis- 
sioners tell UF, generally applicable to 
the state of the silk manufacture 
throughout the whole of Ireland — 

'* Alderman Abbott, for many years 
one of the most extensive silk manufac- 
turers and mercers in Dublin, states : 
' I am acquainted with the state of the 
silk trade for the last fifty years. When 
I remember it first it was flourishing, 
and gave employment to a larfi;e number 
of individuals, consisting of suk throws- 
ters, dyers, winders, warpers, weavers, 
and dressers ; even as far back as I can 
remember, considerable fluctuations took 
place in the trade, but were merely 
temporary, occasioned by the wear of 
muslins and other fabrics. Up to 1829 
I was engaged in the wholesale silk 
trade, emplojlnfi^ a large number of 
looms ; importea my own silk, and had 
it manufactured here. I left the trade 
in consequence of the combinations 
among the workmen. I called my wea- 
vers together, and they agreed to make 
a considerable reduction in the price of 
weaTing i when they got thQ work out 

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IUp0af MavemetU^^iks ProMcuiian. 


for th« winter's trade, the eommittee of 
the combinators took the shuttles from 
them, and would not allow them to 
finish their work in the looms until I 
agreed to giTO the full London prices ; 
in consequence of which I did not think 
it safe any longer to continue in the 
trade, and I reti^sd from business. This . 
occurred in the year 1826. The wearers 
were accustomed to fix the prices of 
weaWne ; and as I stated before, I 
oalled them together, and told them, as 
the facility was so great for getting 

foods from England, and the protecting 
utT being taken off, that I could not 
with safety gire them the London prices. 
I manufactured every thing that could 
be made, IVom silk yelvets, ribbons, 
kc. ftc kc. I belieye there are rery 
fewsilb weavers here now, except the 
tabinel weavers. I attribute the with- 
drawal of the trade in whole silks to the 
oombmations of the men, who would not 
work at Manchester prioes, but insisted 
on London prioes, wnich the manufac- 
turer here could not afford to give.* " 

That the internal condition of Ire- 
land has improvedf appears^ to us Irish- 
men^ such a truism> that it seems ridi- 
oulouB to make it a matter of formal 
statement ; and yet, the language of 
the repealers would make it appear 
that our country was in a galloping 
consumption from the time of the 
union. We must refer our readers to 
Mr. Mcntgomery Martin's pages for 
much curious and valuable information 
on this part of the subject. He has 
collected the opinions of various well- 
informed and unbiassed individuals, 
from whose testimony it clearly ap- 
pears that our country towns have in- 
creased, that our lands are hr better 
cultivated,* that our fiumin^ produce 
and live stock have vastly increased, 
that our houses are better buUt, and 
more sumptuously furnished, that our 
population are not only more numer- 
ous, but better clothed and fed, that 
our roads and our public conveyances 
are, beyond all comparison, oetter 
and more numerous, than at any 

S^riod before the legislative union, 
trange indications these of national 
decline! «'Lordl Mr. Hardcasde," 
says the mother of that precious youth, 
Tony Lumpkin, *' I am afraid my 
IKK>r boy is getting into a consump- 
tion." "He is," observes her husband, 
with a choleric dryness, ''if getting 
too fat be one of the symptoms. 

hi the following, we have a very 
pleaaing pioture of what may l>e dono 

for a large tract of country by a litte 
judicious improvement — 

<* Mr. Nimmo states, m 182S, that the 
fertile plains of Limerick, Cork, and 
Kerry, are separated from each other 
by a aeserted country, hitherto nearly 
• an impassable barrier between them. 
This large district comprehends nearly 
600 Irish, or 970 squares miles British. 
In many places it b very populous. As 
might be expected un<ier sudi circum- 
stances, the people are turbulent, and 
their houses being inaccessible for want 
of roads, it is not surprising that, during 
the disturbances in 1821 and 1822, this 
district was the asylum for whitebovs, 
smugglers, and robbers, and that stolen 
cattle were drawn into it as to a safe 
and impenetrable retreat. Notwith- 
standing its present desolate state, this 
country contains within itself the seeds 
of future improvement and indus^. 
Such was the state of things in 1829; 
subsequently, an engineer of eminence, 
Mr. Griffith, was employed to exeente 
public works in this district, under the 
authority of the government. He con- 
firms the former statement of Mr. 
Nimmo. This tract, he observes, is a 
wUd, neglected, and deserted country, 
without roads, culture, or civilisation ; 
it chiefly belongs to absentee proprie- 
tors, and bein^ for the most part mao- 
cessible, has hitherto afforded an asylom 
for outlaws and culprits of every de- 
scription. In the year 1829, after the 
execution of the works, Mr. Griffith 
reports with respect to the same dis- 
trict, a very considerable improvement 
has already taken place in the vicinity 
of the roads, both in the industry of the 
inhabitants and the appearance of the 
country. At the commencement of the 
works the people flocked into them, 
seeking employment at any rate ; their 
look haggard, thehr clothing wretdied ; 
they rarely possessed any tools or im» 
plements beyond a small ill-shi4>ed 
spade ; and nearly the whole face of the 
country was unimproved ; since the 
completion of the roads, rapid strides 
have been made; upwards of sixty 
new lime-kilns have been built ; carts, 
ploughs, harrows, and improved imple- 
ments have beoome common ; new 
houses of a better class have been biUlt, 
new inclosures made, and the country 
has become perfectly tranquil, and exhi- 
bits a scene of industry and exertioa 
at once pleasing and remarkable. A 
large portion of the monev received fiir 
labour has been husbanded with care, 
laid out in building substantial houses, 
and in the purchase of stock and agri- 
cultural implements; and numerous 
examples mi^ht be shown of poor labour* 
ers, possesfl&g neither money, houses. 

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Septal Movemeni^the PraseeuHan. 


nor land when first employed, who in 
tfa« past jear hare been enabled to 
take farms, build houses, and stock their 

*' A most interesting account of the 
effect of Uiese works on the habits of 
the people will be found in the Minutes 
of toe Parliamentary Report, p. 96. 

*'At Abbeyfeale and Brosna," ob- 
serres Mr. Kelly, " above half of the 
congregation at mass on Sundays were 
barofoot and ragged, with small straw 
hats of their own manufacture, felt 
hats being only worn by a few. Hun- 
dreds, or even thousands of men, could 
be eot to work at sixpence a-day. If it 
had been offered. Tne farmers were 
mostly in debt ; and many of the fami- 
hes went to b^ in Tipperary and other 
parts. The condition of the people is 
nowTery different; the congregations 
at the chapels are now as well clad as 
in other parts ; the demand for labour 
Is increased, and a spirit of industry is 

Ktting forward, since the new roads 
ve become STailable.'' 

The sums of money expended upon 
our harbours, fisheries, barracks, lu- 
natic asylomSf education societies, fe- 
rerhospitab, aad yarioos comniissioiif 
Qf inquiry, i^c &c., at the expense of 
the empire at large, may be seen in 
detail in Mr. Martin's tables, and must 
latisfy any mind not steeled against 
^onyictioD, that Ireland has not been 
Mdected in the imperial parliament. 

By reference to the returns of the 
yarioufl sayipgs banks, the erowinjg 
prosperity of the humbler classes is 
quite i4>parent. Both the number of 
contributors, and the sums contributed, 
are steadily increasing; and were it 
not for the pestilential agitation by 
which the country is cursed, the in- 
crease would be still more decbive. 

ntMOMfsUlntoraddnwa oatof thelrUh BsTinfi 
Bttks tnm ItSl to 1898 we thuihowii t~ 






mi . . 



\m . . 



im . . 



lt»4 . . 



\m . . 


, 36,047 

1818 . . 



isn . . 


> 164389 

1888 . . 



The population returns bear oat the 
lame result. Our people are increas- 
ing fiifter than any other people in the 
world, with the exception of some of 
the American states ; and the density 
of the poimlation to ^e square mile u 
gretter tnaaeyoi that of China 1 So 

much for the assertion of the agitator, 
that Ireland has been ** depopulated" 
by the union. Upon this Mr. Martin 
oDseryes — 

" It is very desirable that in every 
consideration affecting Ireland, this 
most important consideration should be 
a main object for reflection. We should 
remember that, even in an agricultural 
point of view, Ireland is a poor coun^ 
try ; that there are nearly one hundred 
distinct mount4ins, or mountain ridges, 
varying in height from 1000 to 8500 
feet; that there are more than one 
hundred lakes or loughs, covering a 
great extent of surface ; together with 
rivers and bogs almost innumerable; 
while the land actually under cultiva- 
tion does not, acre for acre, produoe 
one-third the agricultural produce of 
England ; and this not solely owing to 
imperfect cultivation, or to want of 
capital and manure, but owing to the 
intrinsic poorness of the soil, the ex- 
ceeding moisture of the climate, and, 
excepting some rich spots, the stony 
and boggy nature of the country. 

"A population of 380 to each square 
mile of cultivable surface in a country 
depending mainly on the productions of 
an imperfectly tilled and poorly ma- 
nured soil, would be too much for Eng- 
land, with all her accumulated wealth, 
trade, and manufactures.'' 

Such are a few of the plain facts of 
the case, notwithstanding which Mr* 
O'Connell has been able to persuade 
the credulous multitude that by the 
union with Great Britain the country 
has been impoverished and degraded. 

With an increasing revenue, an in- 
crensing consumption, an increasing 
production, an increasing importation, 
an increasing exportation, an increase 
in the savings of frugal industry, an 
increase both in the number and extent 
of our country towns, an increase in 
the number of our ships, an increase 
in the number of our houses, an in- 
crease almost unexampled in the popu- 
lation, an increase in the substantial 
comforts of that population, an increase 
in both the number and the quality of 
our roads, an increase in the number of 
our public conveyances, with, in fact, 
every imaginable indication of pros* 
perity, both permanent and progressiva 
before their eves, the arch-agitator ana 
his unscrupulous coadjutors have de- 
luded the people into the belief that 
they are the most oppressed and da- 
gnided creatures upon the ikoe of tha 
earth—that they are Buffenng under 

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Repeal Movement^^tJte Prosecution. 


evils unexampled since the creation of 
the world — evils which have been en- 
gendered by the selfishness and the cu- 
pidity of England, and which can only 
oe redressed by a native parliament I 

But» come ; the taxation is^ perhaps, 
oppressively burdensome. So, at least, 
the agitators say — 

" Under the protection of the Irish 
parliament, Ireland was the least taxed 
country in Europe; whilst under the 
iron rule of the British legislature it is 
a universally admitted fact that Ireland 
is, in proportion to her means, the most 
heavily taxed country on the face of the 

Now, what will be thought of them 
by all honest and reasonable men, when 
the distinct contrary of this appears to 
be the fact ? Ireland is now positively 
less taxed than she was at the time of 
the union ; and she b both positively 
and relatively less taxed than either 
England or Scotland. 

" In 1800l-£4,387,096 ; population— 
4,000,000; taxation per head, 21s. 6d. 

"In 1840— £4,102,385; population— 
8,000,000; taxation per head, 10s. 

* The state taxation levied in Eno^land 
is about " fifty" shillings a-bead ; in. 
Scotland it is "forty'* shillings ; m Ire- 
land only " ten** shillings. 

" The population at the time of the 
Union was not more than half the pre- 
sent number, 8,200,000; and yet the 
amount of taxation levied is positively 
less than it was forty years ago. 

"Let us view Ene^land, Scotland 
and Ireland, as regards the pressure of 
taxation at the present period, and at 
the time of the Union, using round 
numbers for simplification. 

1800. 1840. 

England . . £35,000,000 £42,000,000 
ScoUuid . . 2/)00,000 5,000.000 

IreUnd . . . 4,300,000 4,100,000 

" Thus, while the pressure on Eng- 
land has been largely increased, and m 
Scotland more than doubled, in Ireland 
it has been positively and relatively di- 

So far for the statement than Ire- 
land is more heavily taxed than either 
England or Scotland. " Let us now," 
Mr. Montgomery Martin observes, 
** ascertain the correctness of the alle- 
gation, that she is more heavily taxed 
than other countries." 

" This assertion is at once answered 
by the following detail of taxation in 
tereml foreign coontries, merely pre- 

mising that in Ireland the imperial 
taxes are not Hen' shillings a-head per 
annum ; that the local taxes, (namely* 
1,200,000/. county cess, 500,000/. tithes, 
300,000/. poor-rates, and other interior 
taxes,) amount to about *five* shilUogs 
a-head yearly. In England the impe- 
rial taxation alone is ' fifty* shillings a- 
head per annum ; and the local taxes at 
least twenty-five shillings a-bead per 
annum. In Scotland, the imperial tax- 
ation is nearly ' forty* shillings a-head 
per annum ; the local taxation about 
' ten* shillings a-head per annum. 

" In the Statistical Companion to tho 
Pocket-Book for 1843, prepared by Mr. 
C. R. Weld, Assistant- Secretary to 
the Statistical Society of London, the 
following data will be found :— 





£ ■. 

Frftnr« . 34,000,000 


1 3 

Spain. . IS.000,000 



Papal StatM 2,700,000 


1 3 

UoUand . 2,800,000 


1 15 

Belffloni . 4.200,000 



i:«ypt . 2,000.000 


I 10 

Greece . . G00,000 


2 15 

Hanorer. .1,800,000 



Saxony . .1,600,000 




Enough has now been said to show 
the monstrous falsehood and absurdity 
of the statements by which the popular 
mind in this country has been deluded. 
To those who would follow out the 
subject in detail, we earnestly recom- 
mend Mr. Martin's clear and con- 
vincing statistical papers, as they posi- 
tively leave no loop-hole to the adver- 
sary to escape from the conclusion that 
the whole system of agitation has been 
based upon fraud and imposture. In 
the chapter before us, he perfectlj 

"First, that Ireland is noic^ one of 
the least taxed countries in Europe; 
second, that the amount of taxes levied 
per-head in Ireland is now only one-kaif 
the amount levied at the period of the 
Union ; third, that the taxes levied in 
Ireland are only one-fifth per head the 
amount levied in England, and one- 
third the amount levied in Scotland ; 
fourth, that in thirty-three years the 
difference of taxation between Oreat 
Britam and Ireland is more than three 
hundred million Bterling in favour of 
Ireland ; and fifth, that there has been 
no violation of the Act of Union.*' 

But well we know that no such de- 
monstration can produce the slightest 
effect upon those whose rooted anti- 
pathv to British rule is at the bottom 
of ail their reasonings for a repeal of 
the legislative omon. They cherish a 

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Repeal Movement — the Prosecution. 


hatred of Saxon domination which is 
not to he propitiated hj anj amount of 
national prosperity to he had upon the 
terms of wearing what they consider 
the livery of their rulers ; and an in- 
sane desire of national independence^ 
which spurns every merely financial or 
mercantile consideration, hy which 
plain common sense might he satisfied 
that the blessings which we have should 
not be lightly jeopardised for the ima- 
gmai7 advantages of that untried state 
of being, upon which we are prompted 
so perilously to adventure. But, above 
all, hatred of the church, a hatred 
which is carefully instilled into the 
people by their priests, (who, the more 
they have been fondled by the state, 
have only the more manifested a bitter 
and unappeaseable rancour against it), 
is a preaominating ingredient in that 
hostility to the government by which 
it is upheld, which gives its most en- 
roomed character to the agitation for 
the repeal of the union. 

To talk, therefore, as if repeal could 
be charmed down by any exposure of 
the historical misstatements, or the 
financial errors, of those by whom it 
is advocated, would only provoke the 
mockery of the repealers. Can any 
one suppose that O'Connell is the dupe 
of his own lies ; that he believes the 
monstrous fictions which he imposes 
upon the credulous multitudes who 
resort to him, as to an oracle, for in- 
struction? Or his principal instru- 
roentSy that they are deceived by the 
fidsehoods they are commissioned to 
utter? No. To entertain such a 
notion would be to rival in gullibility 
the wretched dupes who are led cap- 
tive by his devices. Or does any one 
Suisse that he would consent to be 
the prime actor in such a system of 
imposture, if large g^ns did not accrue 
to hinoself from courses which are not 
more mischievous than they are dis- 
graceful? No. He has no love of 
mfiuny for its own sake. No man ever 
lived who has less enjoyment in the 
society of the vulgar brawlers with 
whom he is construned to ponsort. 
He positively loathes'the foetid breaths 
upon which are wafted the acclama- 
tions by which he is hailed as '< the 
Liberator" at his public meetings. 
But all this is indispensably necessary 
for the end which he has in view, 
namely, the collection of an enormous 
tribute; and as long as that can be se% 

cured, he will be little scrupulous about 
the means to secure it. 

It may, therefore, be laid down as 
an axiom, that agitation will be con- 
tinued as long as it b profitable to agi- 
tate ; and that nothing but a convic- 
tion on the part of the g^eat impostor, 
that sedition can bring him no more 
gain, and that it may even be attended 
with a little danger, will cause him to 
desist from practices by which the 
prosperity of the country has been so 
grievously interrupted, and the public 
peace so much endangered. 

Already the belief has been gene- 
rated that all the objects at which the 
agitator aims are to be secured by 
means of money. Give — give — give, 
is, therefore, the cry ; a cry which 
has, hitherto, been responded to with 
surprising readiness and marvellous 
perseverance, by myriads whose po- 
verty is on a level with their credu- 
lous ignorance ; but whose zeal causes 
them to forget their sacrifices, while 
any hope remains that, by anv sacri- 
fices, the independence of their coun« 
try, and the triumph of their religion 
may be attained. 

Emancipation, they are told, was 
purchased by ''the Catholic rent." 
Well they remember when that cause 
was deemed well nigh hopeless. But 
O'Connell agitated ; the rent was col- 
lected ; Peel and Wellington, as they 
firmly believe, were largely bribed; 
and not only proved false to their own 
principles, but forced the obnoxious 
measure which they had so long re- 
sisted, upon a reluctant king, and an 
almost insurgent people. Thus it was 
that emancipation was carried, say the 
priests to their eager aud simple- 
minded hearers— and why not repeal ? 
Only let large contributions be raised, 
and trust the distribution of them to 
'' the Liberator," and he will engage, 
without shedding a single drop of 
blood, to inspire with favourable dispo- 
sitions towards his favourite measure, 
the most powerful of those by whom 
it is at present opposed ; so that it is 
not at all without the limits of possi- 
bility, that, before another year elapses, 
we may see a parliament sitting in 
College-^een I 

Such is the delusion which at pre- 
sent prevails, and under which the 
poor people still continue to pour their 
contributions into the repeal treasury. 
Nor will it be dissipated«*iior will the 

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Repeat MoPtmetU^'^he Proieeutian. 


waad of tli« aroh-magician be broken, 
until they are thorooghlj convinced 
that their efforts are fruitless, and that 
all O'Connell's boastings are vain. 
It is therefore that we look with a fe- 
yerish apprehension at the bare possi- 
bilitj of any compromise on the part 
of goyemment with the public dis- 
turbers. It could answer but one end, 
that of saving the credit of the im- 
postor who is now, if they are firm, at 
their mercy ; and preserving, in a state 
of smouldering ignition, prepared for 
future mischief, Uie embers of a sedi- 
tion which, if promptly and vigorously 
dealt with, may be put out at once, 
and for ever. 

As yet, we have no fault to find with 
the course pursued by government. 
Their attituae has been bold and con- 
stitutional, and their tone firm and de- 
cisive ; mixed, on the part of her ma« 
jesty's attorney-general, with every 
consideration for the feelings and in- 
terests of the traversers, which be- 
comes, on such an occasion, an officer 
of the crown. In all such cases the 
law presumes innocence until guilt is 
proved. The crown prosecutor, there- 
fore, did evoy thing in his power to 
expedite the triab, in order that the 
accused, if innocent, might, as speedily 
as possible, be exculpated from all im- 
putation of criminality. What he 
would have desired in his own case, 
had he been charged with offences 
which he did not commit, he readily, 
and even earnestly, pressed upon them 
in theirs ; but, strange to say, his 
courtesies were declined with a wari- 
ness just as remarkable as the gene- 
rosity with which they were tendered | 
and the traversers were, no doub^ 
well advised, and had their own good 
reasons for interposing every technical 
ground of delay which the skill of 
3)eir most able counsel oould devise, 
for deferring Uie day of trial to the 
most distant possible period i choosing, 
perhaps, ratiier to bear the reproaon 
of the crimes with which they were 
chai^^ than to lay themselves under 
any obli^tion to the attorney-general, 
by availmg themselves of his oenevo- 
lent intentions | an instance of spirit 
and of delicacy which will, of course, 
be duly iq;>preciated when their cases 
come on to be heard. And here, for 
the present, we take leave of this part 
of the sulgeo^ not choosing to hasard 
a sfai^^ eipressiog which might pre* 
iidm the oase ai tha aoooMldt w be 

construed into any departure firom the 
strictest impartiality in its bearing 
upon the pending prosecutions. Our 
motto is, ** May God defend the right." 
If the traversers be innocent men, wa 
trust they will be honourably acquitted. 
If guilty, we only desire that they be 
made amenable to the law. 

And here we would just advert for 
a moment to an apprehension which 
seems to be entertained by some of our 
contemporaries in England, that if the 
traversers be con? icted, there may be 
some difficulty in carrying into effect 
the sentence of the court against them. 
A more unfbunded apprehension never 
was entertained. Supposing (and we 
only suppose it for argument sake) sueh 
a very improbable thing as that Mr. 
Daniel O'Connell should be convicted 
of an offence aeainst the law, thore Is 
no penalty within the competency of 
the court to inflict, which could not be 
carried int6 force, without excitmg the 
slightest tumult amongst the people. 
There might have been some doubt— 
we entertained none — respecting the 
obedience which would be shown to 
the proclamation by which the great 
monster meetings were prohibited; 
but as to the course of law respecting 
any delinquents who may be proved to 
have been disturbers of the public 
peace, or movers or seducers of her 
majesty's subjects to overt acts of se- 
dition or of treason, her mi^esty's 
mail coaches do not drive through 
peaceful England with less apprehen- 
sion of disturbance, than need be felt 
that that will neither be ''let or hin^ 
dered" by any demonstration of phy- 
sical forc$ arrayed on the part of^the 
delinquents. Not to talk of the per- 
fect propriety with which they them^ 
selves would see that it was only be- 
coming to demean themselves towards 
the legal tribunals of the country, they 
know full well that a different course 
would be certain ruin. Thev know 
that ample preparation b at hand to 
repress and to punish any outrages into 
which their indiscreet adherents misht 
be betrayed, and tiiat thmr calamity 
would only be aggravated by any nnseem* 
lyandineffBctuuretbtance. Besideiy 
into any projects of such resistance^ 
the people, as at present advised, are 
very little disposed to enter. They 
have been taught to believe that reped 
is to be aocomplished by a strict 
obedienoe to the law. If sach shoidd 
not prore to be theoaM^ they moat re- 
Digitized b-^ _ _ _ -_ 


appeal IfoMNMnf— l4tf ProieevHon. 


gird those who so instrncted them 
tUherai ineoiDpetent guides or deli- 
bertte decdven. And when the law 
his once pronoimoed that the comhi- 
Bitions into which they hare heen 
drawn are contrary hoth to its letter 
sad its spirity it is our belief that very 
little persuasion will be necessary to 
iadooe them to abstain from an agita- 
tioo, by which no good or honourable 
sod can be answered ; — that is^ if the 
flOTsniment really eidiibit a proper 
irmnessy and prove themselves m ear- 
aest in their determination to muntain 
the integrity of the empire. 

The truth is^ that the agitation by 
whidi this country has been recently 
disturbed^ is either fSormidable or in- 
ngoificsnt aecordinff to the manner in 
which it is opposed. If it be boldW 
sonfronted and resolutely resisted, it 
will very soon be found to be nothing 
■ore than *' sound and fury, signifying 
lothinff ;** the ass will be strip{i«d of the 
]ioQ*s SdOf and the noise whicn was in- 
tended to terriiyj will only bring de- 
rision upon him that made it. If it be 
timidly or doabtingly dealt with, the 
f ay worst consequences may ensue; 
sod not only an agitated country. 
Vat a dismembered empire, may be 
imoDgst the evidences of the treachery 
or ihe incompetency of those who are 
SBtrusted wim the administration of 

Amongst the causes of disturbance 
in this country since the measure of 
twenty-nine, undoubtedly the most 
promtneot has been the persuasion 
that that measure was extorted from 
the fears of ministers. That such was 
reafly the case, we are fkr from believ« 
ing ; but such a belief has prevailed } 
9x4, accordingly, the measure which 
WIS to prodaoe peace, has only pro- 
D»oted discord; that whidi was to satisfy 
every reasonable expectation, to pre- 
vent or subdue all unreasonable cla- 
mour, has only operated as a bounty 
r sedition. From that period to 
present violence and intimida- 
tion have been at a premium, and all 
peaoefnl councils, teaching the people 
to aeqniesoe in Uie large concessions 
whidi were obtained, at a discount in 
Ireland. O'Connell, and not the Duke 
of Wellington, was «< the Liberator." 
The peo^e have been taught to fix 
Hmr hopes ibr their oonntry upon 
Sb|^ Jfl fears. Her embarrassments 
are their advantages. History, both 

sacked and perverted, in order to fror- 
nish instances of oppression and cruelty 
which might stir the blood of an 
ardent, reckless, and imaginative peo- 
ple ; with what efiect, let the columns 
of the great repeal journal, ** The 
Nation,'^ tell— a journal patronised by 
the priests, finding its ready way^ into 
every hamlet, and conducted with a 
singular force of perverted talent, 
such as might well cause " the very 
stones to rise in mutiny." Now, an 
this arises from 'the mistake, which 
was but too natural, that, to their 
violence, and to nothinff else, the Ro- 
man Catholics are indebted for eman- 
cipation ; (tnd this Hate of thingi must 
continue as long as that ndstahe is 
suffered to pr^aU. We, thereforj^, 
look upon the present crisis as one in 
which ministers have an opportuni^, 
if they properly avail themselves of i^ 
to do justice to themselves, and also to 
the British parliament, by putting an 
end to the greatest and the grossest 
delusion that ever misled a credulous 
people. Let repeal agitation be reso- 
lutely put down — ^let there be no com- 
promise with affitators; let every 
overture from O'Gonnell, and his 
wretched serfli, by which they would 
fain purchase a safe and honourable 
retreat from their present perilous 
position, be met with hijj^h disdain — 
with lofty, scomftd Indignation; let 
the law take its course ; let the delin- 
quents, (If there be any such,) meet 
with the punishment due to their mis- 
deeds, as the ^sturbers of the countirv 
and tiie perv e rt e rs of the people ; if, 
owing to the fearful extent to which 
the combination has been suffered to 
extend, the law, as it stands, should 
not be fbund sufficient, let ministers 
apply to parliament for such increased 
powers as may enable them to cope 
with gigantic sedition ; and as surely 
as they thus evlnoe an unfilnchlng de- 
termination to uphold the majesty of 
the British crown, and to rescue Ire- 
land from the domination of lying, 
reckless, profligate, mendicant incen- 
diaries, they will not only witness a 
speedy abatement of our present dis- 
orders, but be enabled very soon to 
behold halycon symptoms of peace and 
prosperitv to whidi this distracted 
land has long been a stranger. 

This, they may depend upon It, is 
the only true mode offoUawbig up the 
measure of twenty-nine. They will 
tiins rootiqrthe popular judgment in * 

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Repeal Maf>emefU — the ProiecuHai^. 


matter respecting which it has been 
too long abused. The palm of victory 
and of triumph, which has been so 
long worn bj seditious demagogues, 
will be transferred to its legitimate 
owners. Emancipation will be re- 
garded as a concession to justice, not 
a surrender to base fear. The people 
will be constrained to feel that they 
can gain nothing by threats and terror. 
The demagogue will feel that his 
« occupation is gone;" that '^ the 
pride, pomp, and circumstance,** of 
the great monster meetings have 
passed away ; and that, like other 
mountebanks, he has more reason to 
dread a reaction on the part of his 
dupesy (who will feel sore at the im- 
postures by which they have been 
gulled,) thiu) to hope for any profitable 
returns from a further continuance of 

That the proceedings of govern- 
ment have been directed against the 
leaders, and not the tcretched dupes of 
the repeal movement, meets with our 
unquaiiiied approbation. Too lone 
have these incendiaries been permitted 
to derive to themselves profit and 
popular consideration, from courses 
which have brought upon a deluded 
peasantry the vengeance of the law. 
It is now wisely and mercifully re- 
solved that the masters, not the 
scholars, shall be the first to be called 
upon to pay the penalties of their 
oflfences ; and if, when this important 
duty shall have been well discharged 
by the crown-prosecutors, a disposi- 
tion is evinced by government to 
bestow a Urge and liberal considera- 
tion upon the condition of the hum- 
bler classes, and to devise for them 
means of employment, and secure to 
them adequate protection in their 
lawful industry against the atrocious 
combinators whose tyranny has been 
felt in almost every trade, as much 
will have been done as can be done by 
human means, to aid in the promotion 
of tranquillity, and the progress of 

That the labours of the present 
land commission will bo attended with 
a beneficial result, we do not enter- 
tain the least doubt ; although we are 
far from being of opinion that the 
clamour to which it owes its origin 
was well-founded. Let the conmiis- 
sioners hold steadily in mind the 
grounds upon which their inquiry 
Bad been called tor, oameljTi the de« 

ploroble recklessness of the peasant 
in the south and west for human life ; 
their readiness to avenge theur real or 
fancied injuries by the shedding of 
blood; the fearfully formidable con- 
bioation into which they have entered 
for mutual support against what they 
feign or fancy to be agrarian oppres- 
sion ; the sort of law of opinion which 
prevails amongst them, that murder, 
when executed by the mandate of their 
terrible confederacy, ceases to be a 
crime, and is to be regarded as a sort 
of wild retributive justice ; let the 
commissioners hold in mind that this 
is the state of things of which they are 
called upon to explain the cause, and 
to devise the remedy ; and that if this 
duty be not performed, the commis- 
sion will have been issued in vain. For 
this state of things, that great journal, 
'' The Tunes,** suggests, that the 
landlords are responsible. If this be 
so, they should be made to bear the 
blame ; but in order to show that it 
is so, the commissioners most institute 
a comparison between the relation of 
landlord and tenant in the south and 
west, and the same relation in the 
north of Ireland, from which it will 
be made to appear that a de^ee of 
oppression in the one case, which is 
unknown in the other, may be allied 
as the probable cause of the remark- 
able difference between those two por- 
tions of the island, as regards the state 
of crime. The question is, — Why is 
murder rife in the county of Tippe- 
rary ; why is that a country in wnich 
it is unsafe to live ; what is the cause 
of the demoniac barbarity by which its 
peasantry are characterised? If this 
IS to be found in the relation between 
landlord and tenant, let the law, as 
affecting that relation be, by all means, 
amended ; but then it must be shown, 
that either in theory or practice, it is 
different in the north from what it is 
in the south of Ireland. But should 
such not appear to be the hct — should 
the landlords in the one part of the 
country, which is disgraced by outrage, 
be found to be as reasonable and as 
indulgent as those of the other in 
which no such outrages are to he dis- 
covered—it will be dear that the ap- 
pointment of the commission has been 
made upon the fallacy of « non causa 
pro causa;" and it wUl remam for the 
commissioners to pronounce, accord- 
ing to the best of their judgment, 
wtot other aod more mbtU eftosea 

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Repeal MovemetU-^tke ProsecxUioni 


may be in operation, which modify 
essentially the characters of the 
people, and produce amongst them a 
brood of mm*derons miscreants^ a 
dlagrace to humanity, and a blot upon 

As soon as the outcry against the 
Irish landlords was taken up by the 
powerfol jonmal above alluded to, 
and met with a sort of passive acqui- 
escence by ministers, it was our opi- 
niop that they themselves should have 
inrited this inquhry. Not to do so, 
appeared to us, and also to the English 
public, as a plea of guilty to the 
charges which were made against 
them ; whereas, had they challenged 
b^uiry boldly, they would have 
evidenced, at least, their own sense of 
the wrong which was done them, when 
they were held forth as tyrants and 
oppressors, who ground the faces of 
the poor. It only now remains for 
them to expedite, by every means in 
their power, the sifting investigation 
which is going on ; and to place, in 
the clearest light, the relation in which 
they stand to their tenants ; that the 
commissioners may have no complaint 
to make of any lack of willingness on 
their part, to aid them in the perform- 
ance of their arduous duty. If this be 
done, (and we have very little doubt 
that it will be done,) a mass of authen- 
tic information will very soon be col- 
lected, by which the public mind will 
be disabused. The Tipperary land- 
lords, with very few exceptions, will 
he found to be as considerate and as 
equitable as any other proprietors in 
the British empire. We would be 
giad to know where there are to be 
round any where better landlords than 
the Earl of Donoughmore or Lord 
Bloomfield. Let any northern pro- 
prietor be compared with them, and 
we are persuaded the comparison can- 
not be to their disadvantage. There 
«re, we know, lauds held under them, 
upon long leases, over the sub-letting 
of which they have no control ; and 
respecting these, there may be exor- 
bitant exactions, which may well de- 
serve rebuke; hut we maintain that, 
to the very same extent, the same com- 
piamt may be made in the north of 
Mand; and we cannot fairly allege 
an evil, which is common to both 
parts of the island, as the cause of a 
state of things, by which one is so 
•t^wgty contrasted with the other. 
No 1 Thb part of the subject must 

not be misrepresented or mystified* 
The commissioners have a duty to 
perform, from which they must not 
shrink. They must searchingly in- 
quire, whether the frightful anomaly 
of the social condition of Tipperary, 
is to be ascribed to the moral or the 
physical circumstances of the people ; 
and if their physical circumstances are 
not widely different from those of 
other parts of the country, where the 
peasantry are remarkable for their 
tranquillity and obedience to the law, 
it only remains to ascribe these disor- 
ders to the proper cause — the absence 
of those purifying Christian influences, 
by which alone the innate depravity of 
the human heart can be reclaimed, and 
the whole man, with the passions and 
the affections, brought under the do- 
minion of the Gospel. 

For our parts, when we see the con* 
g^egations in the north of Ireland 
assembling on Sunday in the house of 
prayer; joining in a service which 
they can understand, in which the 
word of God is read; and listening 
to a scriptural discourse, by which all 
of them, from the highest to the low- 
est, may be profited; and when we 
know that the congregations in the 
south assemble to witness a gaudy 
ceremonial, and to listen to a service 
in an unknown tongue, which cannot 
profit those who bear it; we fancy 
that, in this one particular, there is a 
difference between these two classes 
of people which would account fully 
for every other difference by which 
their social condition is distinguished ; 
and that if, by some extraordinary 
intervention of Providence, the popery 
of the south and the protestantbm of 
the north should change places, very 
soon a corresponding change in the 
characters of the inhabitants would 
become manifest, and the ferocity of 
Tipperary would be transplanted into 
the county of Down, while the peace- 
fulness and the respect for the law 
which prevails in the county of Down 
would take up its residence in Tippe- 
rary. Whether the subject will or 
will not be regarded in this point of 
view by the commissioners, we know 
not; but well we know that such con- 
siderations cannot be fairly considered 
beside any inquiry which contemplates 
the evils of our social state, and would 
fain provide remedies against them. 
The spurious liberalism which affects 
to make little of moral causes, is the 

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Riptal MovemttU-'At ProtmOiom, 


shallowest and the most contemptible 
empiricism bj which a nation and its 
rulers ever were deceived; and to 
hope to remedy the state of things, 
hj whichy to a g^eat extent, the south 
and west of Ireland are so unhappily 
characterised, by a mere attention to 
physical wants or compliance with po- 
litical demands, would resemble the 
folly of the physician who should en- 
deavour to cure a patient labouring 
under insanity, b^ the adminbtration 
of stimulants which could only render 
the delirium of the unhappy maniac 
more hopelessly incontrollable. 

If the inquiry be limited to the 
law of landlord and tenant merely, 
nothing of importance will be done. 
We are not insensible to the collateral 
g^od that may arise from the distinct 
negative which may be given to the 
profligate asseveration which repre- 
sents the Irish proprietors as a race of 
unfeeling tyrants. This, we hope, 
may be accomplished. Neither do 
we undervalue the suggestions which 
the experience of the commissioners 
may enable them to offer, and by 
which the condition of honest and im- 
proving tenants, throughout the whole 
of Irelimd,mavbe rendered more secure 
and easy. All this may be done, (and 
it is our belief that it is fully as much 
required for other parts of the em- 
pire as for this,) and the blot will not 
yet be touched which prompted the 
present investigation. All this may 
be done, and murder will still stalk 
abroad in Tipperary ; the tyrannous 
ascendancy of^a miscreant confede- 
racy will still prevail, a terror to ma* 
gistrates, to witnesses, and to jurors ; 
for twenty crimes perpetrated, not 
one will be prosecuted ; for twenty 
delinquents who may be prosecuted, 
not one will be brought to justice. It 
will be something, that, in the prose- 
cution of Sir Robert Peel's favourite 
mode of argument, the process of ex- 
haustion, it may be made manifest 
that the landlords are not so deeply 
culpable as they have been repre- 
sented. But wiU the condition of the 
country be rendered more endurable 
if the commissioners proceed no far-* 
ther? We trow not. It is telling 
us very little, to tell us what is not the 
cause of Ireland's evils. Unless they 
are authorised to proceed with the 
investigation, and unless they have 
the honesty and the courage to lay 
bare the real causes which chrken and 

demoralise our peasantry — ^wfaich 
leave them with restless dispositions^ 
lively imaginations, and vacant minds» 
''empty, swept, andgamished," for the 
entrance or the unclean spirit hj 
which they are impelled to crime^ . 
they will not have even made an ap- 
proach towards discovering the source 
of our national disorders; and until 
that is clearly ascertained, it is per- 
fectly idle to expect that any real 
remedy for them can be found. 

Of this we are perfectly sure, that 
the first step towards such a remedy 
must be the establishing the ascend- 
ancy of the law. Offenders of every 
g^ade must feel that the law is their 
master, or it will not be respected. 
Above all, the agitators, by whom the 
people were counselled to acts of se- 
dition and violence, must be taught 
that there is a reckoning which they 
will be called upon to pay, if they per- 
severe in urging their unhappy dupes 
upon courses which are fraught with 
guilt and danger. It is our beUef, 
that when once the law clearly vindi- 
cates itself upon offenders such as 
these, it will be easy to deal with mi- 
nor delinquents. Mercy may then 
be showed them which could not now 
be wisely extended, when it would be 
considered as proceeding from base 
fear, and only serve to strengthen for 
evil the hands of the incendiary to 
whose controlling influence it would 
be attributed. 

Nor should ministers be neglectful 
of the necessity which at present calls 
upon them to provide employment for . 
the people. No consideration of 
mere economy should for a moment 
be suffered to stand in the way of a 
large and comprehensive system of 
railroads. Indeed we believe that if 
it were not for the present pestilent 
agitation, such a system would this 
moment be in operation, giving em- 
ployment to himdreds of thousands of 
creatures who are at present without 
any regular means of subsistence. 
We know well all the objections to 
which such a project is liable. We 
are quite aware that, in the outset at 
least, it might not pay; but it would 
produce a healthy action upon the 
morals of the people, and ft would, 
by opening up tne country, give an 
omnipresence to the power of govern- 
ment bv which faction would be 
effectually crushed. If every station- 
house was the residence of one or 

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Squeal MovetHeni^'^Ae Proiieution. 


Bore of th« oonstabnlarj, who mighty 
upon a signal giren, he expedited to 
anj point where their presence was 
particolarlj demanded, what a vast 
amoont of service might he perform- 
ed on critical emergencies hy a few 
judicious comhinations, baffling, or 
anUcipatiog, or circamrenting, the 
wiles and the violence of the dis* 
tnrber I Theee are objects which far 
ontweigh anj consideration of pre- 
sent profit ; and the attidnment of 
them would well become a wise 
goTemment, even at the cost of greater 
sacrifices than would be required. 

The great mass of the people are 
disposed to tranquillity. They would 
willingly be at peace. A few despe- 
rate incendiaries, by means of a terri- 
bly energetic confederacy, are enabled, 
like the Jacobins in France, to stamp 
their own impress upon a rast ma- 
jority of the indolent and the peacea- 
ble, who are not combined for self-de- 
fence, who dread the vengeance of the 
ribbon-men, and who have no suffi- 
cient reliance upon the protection of 
the law. Thejr know well that to pro- 
voke the hostility, or even to arouse 
the suspicion, of the midnight legis- 
lators, would be to incur the sentence 
of death ; a sentence from which 
there coiild be no appeal, and which 
would be carried into effect with cir- 
cumstances of revolting barbarity; 
while the law would be tardy and para- 
Ijtio in prosecuting the misdeeds of 
svch delinquents. Now to talk of 
such a state of things as mere agra- 
rian disturbances, arising out of the 
vicious relation between Lindlord and 
tenant, and to be remedied by a more 
equitable adjustment of the present 
tenure of the land, is to mbtake a 
malignant and deeply-seated malady 
for a superficial sore, and to treat by 
mere topical applications what could 
neTer be cured but by remedial mea- 
nires acting vigorously upon the whole 

To our minds, Mr. O'Connell never 
in his whole life acted with more con- 
nimmate prudence and dexterity than 
he is acting at present. What is his 
case? He had, by a series of bold 
and energetic demonstrations, worked 
an excitable people up to the very 
pomt of insurrection. Whether he 
commenced with any decided determi- 
pation to carry matters so very far, it 
is betide our object at present to pro. 
nounce; but, undoubtedly^ a spurit 
luui been generated, wluch was rigidly 

obtaining a mastery over the popular 
mind, and which, when the proclama- 
tion for preventing the Clontarf meet- 
ing was issued, was aU but incontrolla- 
ble. Against that spirit, evoked by 
himself, he had to struggle ; and he 
has, as yet, been able to remand it to 
the place ft-om whence it came. He 
now found that he had calculated er- 
roneously upon the passiveness of go- 
vernment, and upon the effect of the 
bullying system upon Sir Robert Peel. 
The minister, though quiet, was not 
imwary ; and whilst, to most men, he 
appeared criminally indifferent to the 
action of the seditious infiuenoes 
which were rending the empire asun- 
der, he was only '< biding his time,*' 
with a predetermination to come swoop 
upon the agitator, when that personage 
had clearly passed all limits of consti- 
tutional forbearance, and when the 
real character and objects of the agi- 
tation were so manifest that the man 
who ran might read them. 

Well, the proper time at length ar- 
rived ; the blow was struck ; repeal 
agitation was suddenly brought to a 
dead lock ; and the incendiary found 
that he must either retreat n'om his 
forward position, or advance upon hos- 
tile bayonets. Can it be doubted that 
he wisely resolved to adopt the less 
heroic alternative ; or that it would be 
an act of phrenetic desperation to con- 
front himself and his tatterdemalions 
with the power and the energy of an 
insulted government, now at length 
aroused to a vindication of its proper 
authority, and fully supported in its 
acts of vigour by the acclaiming ap- 
proval of the empire at large ? No 
sane man can doubt it. Talk of cowar- 
dice, talk of poltroonery; — had O'Con- 
nell acted otherwise he would have 
been mad, and gone far to vindicate 
his memory from the conscious and 
deliberate wickedness with which he 
must be at present charged, by prov- 
ing the disturbed state of his under- 
standing. No. The true play of the 
great dissembler now was, to assume 
the character of the moderate man ; 
to appear under the guise of an apostle 
of peace ; to deprecate all violence, 
and wrath, and evil speaking against 
the government; and to present, as 
far as it was possible so to do, an as- 
pect of meek and injured innocence to 
the nation at large, which might beget 

Sublio sympathy, instead of the bltm- 
ering ferocitv which would only pro- 
voke mdignation. 

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Repeal Movetiient'^he Prosecution. [Jan. I844« 

It was a right pleasant conceit of the 
jack-aASy when he got himself ensconced 
in the lion's skin ; and vastly must he 
have enjoyed the alarm of so many 
more noble beasts, when he made the 
forest re-bellow to his terrific braying. 
But he would have been more stupid 
than any of his brethren, if, when the 
spears of the hunters were upon him, 
he did not cast off his dangerous dis> 
guise, and make himself appear to his 
pursuers, — in puris naturalihus, — nei- 
ther better nor worse than nature 
had made him. His long ears might 
not, indeed, be an ornament, but they 
would be better to him than any orna- 
ment, if they could, in such a case, 
ensure his safety. Even so, a whole 
skin and a full wallet may well recon- 
cile the agitator to a course of pro- 
ceeding in which the honour and glory 
of agitation are, for the present, 
resigned ; nor could he, by any other, 
have so thoroughly signalized the wily 
adroitness by which he may, even yet, 
escape from the meshes of the law. 
Old fox-hunters wi]l,doubtless, remem- 
ber cases in which reynard, when 
closely pursued, has feigned to be dead, 
and contrived to send such an odour 
from his body as completely extin- 
guished the zeal of his pursuers, and 
caused them to recoil from the carrion 
with even more of alacrity than they 
had followed the game. A feeling not 
very dissimilar seems to actuate many 
at the present moment, who were 
amongst the loudest in demanding the 
vindictive prosecution of the agitator, 
as long as he was affronting the go- 
vernment, trampling upon law, and 
outraging reason ; and if the legal 
hunters should turn from him with 
disgust, as from a nuisance, with which 
they would not offend their noses, or 
sully their hands, most happy will he 
be, not to come ** betwixt the wind 
and their nobility.*' The sleep of 
death will soon pass away — a change 
of circumstances may arise; and 
although the unsavoury odour may 
attach to him still ; his old friend, bv 
whom he has been so often favoured, 
may yet 'enable him to be more than a 
match for all his assailants. 

But this is the day of moral and 
political quackery, and the patient, 
oelike, must prescribe for the physi- 
cian. Democracy is in the ascendant, 
and the mountebanks, accordingly, 
must have the upper hand. If Uiis, 
indeed, be so, England as a nation is 
undone. We know, well, what would 

have been our fate had the Whigtf 
continued in power. The church 
would have been sacrificed. Popery 
would rise up on its ruins. Thie 
great demagogue would guide the 
counsels of government, until every 
interest and institution in the 
country was destroyed, by which the 
integrity of the empire might be 
guaranteed; and the loyalists, worn 
out, harassed, and broken in spirit, 
by neglect and persecution, would 
either be compelled to take their part 
with the disturbers, or pass over, 
from sheer disgust, as too many have 
already done, and signalize themselves 
by being amongst the loudest of those 
who clamour for the repeal of the 
union. Can it be that we have only 
had a respite from these calamities, 
by the advent to power of a conserva- 
tive administration ? We trust not. 
We know the heart of the empire 
to be sound. But we cannot help 
feeling an extreme anxiety respect- 
ing the present crisis of our affairs, 
which may give, even to our con- 
servative journal, the character of 
an alarmist. The truth is, that 
the eyes of the empu*e are fixed 
on ministers, respecting the approach- 
ing trials ; and they are even more 
upon their trial than Mr. Daniel 
O'Connell and his worthy compeers. 
All, OS yet, promises well. We are 
satisfied with the manner in which 
the crown prosecutors have dis- 
charged their duty. That they have 
not been as active and as wary as the 
very able solicitor who conducts the 
case of the traversers, is only to say 
that they are not the very ablest by 
whom their places might be filled; 
although we confess we do not know 
at the conservative bar, any, at pre- 
sent, more able. If only an honest 
and independent jury may be empan- 
neled, all will be right. Justice will 
be done to Ireland. But whatever 
may be the result in the Court of 
Queen's Bench, a case will be made 
out for parliamentary interference, 
should the ordinary law of the land 
not prove of any avail, by which, if 
Ireland is to be continued as an in- 
tegral part of the British empire, an 
end must be pi)t4o li profligf^te'agi^ 
tion, by whlA^^^Aal^^igi'nilgj^ 
cant is enriO^a at the expimaaln a\ 
distracted|count4yJ.aittllftid^6dhiA and j 
thebloodof apl«Qde|red, d^^ 
impoverished p^p 

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Vol. XXIII. 

l'iblande apocryphe.* 

The French hare long maintained a 
snpreraacy in literature for singularity 
and eccentricity. Treating grave mat- 
ters Hghtly, and trifles with undue se^ 
Housness, they have enjoyed a monopoly 
of that species of drollery, which con- 
sists in striking and ludicrous contrast 
of style and matter, and hy the plastic 
facility of their language, as well as 
tbetr enjoyment of high animal spirits, 
hive contrived to invest their writing 
with a charm of ease and pleasantry, we 
eold northmen would endeavour in 
vun to compete with. The satirical 
spirit of France — partly from the lan- 
guage, partly from the tone of the 
nation — was rarely tinged with gall ; 
it more reserohled the sharp but not 
unpleasant tartness of lemon-juice, 
which flavoured rather than smarted. 
But still, like their own rapiers, the 
weapon was to the full as deadly, 
though the wound was a small one. 

If we desired to instance this pecu- 
liar trait of the people, we could not 
do so more effectually than by calling 
attention to the volume whose strange 
title stands at the head of this paper. 
J*L*Irlande Apocryphe l" What does 
it mean ? Is the man going to show 
that we never existed at all ? that the 
island is a mere mirage, and ** the eight 
millions** the mere creatures of a dis- 
ordered imagination ? That there are 
no Tipperary murders — no repeal 
meetii^s — no O'Connellsand Steele 

no crown prosecutions — ** no no- 
thing ?" Would that he could divest 
our minds of some of these sad re- 
alities — would that bv any magic he 
could persuade us, that the fear Ail 
period we are passing through, was 
only a dream, and that our waking 
visions would be of happier and fVurer 
prospects I 

How willingly would we barter the 
enjoyments we now believe real, fbr 
such a conviction as this — how gladly 
would we accept of a reasoning, that 
even at the extinction of our own mi- 
serable identity, would blot out fbr 
ever the blood-stained page of Irish 
outrage from the volume of history I 
Alas This project is far different; he 
leaves us all our past, while he fills up 
our future. Taking the meagre sketch 
of our actual condition, he finishes the 
picture, throwing in the lights and sha- 
dows, deepening the eflfbcts, relieving 
the distances ; and then presenting us 
with a finished tableaux, he says : — 
" Voila votre pays I" 

** L'Irlande Apocryphe," is the vi- 
sion of what is to be the future des- 
tiny of this country, when, the dream 
of her patriotic sons realised, and 
the Union repealed, she rises "great, 
glorious, and free," a nation herself, 
independent and self-existent ; when 
all the blessings of self-government 
shall flow over the land, and the spirit 
of the green island, disenthralled from 

* '* L*Irlande Aoocryphe." 1844. Par Charles Geoffroy de Hausaunne. 
fuUii ^teur, et Libraire. Paris, Rue de Seine, 932. 

Vol. XXni.— No. 134. i. 


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VIrlande Apocryphe. 


Saxon bondage^ shall revel freely once 
more over the hills and valleys of her 
native soil. 

The author represents himself as 
looking into the vista of long years, 
following out the vrorking of those 
principles, whose origin he has stu- 
diously examined, tracing the growth 
of that tree, whose seed he hi^ seen 
deposited in the earth ; and so far has 
he identified himself with his subject, 
that he can scarcely persuade himself 
that his dream is not reality, and, to 
use his own forcible expression : — 
*' J'ai fini par croire a ce livre, apres 
Tavoir acheve. Ainsi, le sculpteur, 
qui vient de terminer son marbre, y 
voit un dieu, 8*agenouiIle et adore." 

We must confess, that however wil- 
ling to surrender ourselves, hand and 
foot bound, on all common occasions, 
to those who take the trouble to in- 
struct or amuse us on paper, we 
have not gone to this extent in the 
instance before us. In the first place, 
we shrink from believing what we 
would not wish to be true. Secondly, 
we hesitate to concede our convictions 
to any foreigner, whose knowledge of 
our country must, necessarily, be im- 
perfect and unsafe. And lastly, the 
wand of the sleeper has not touched 
us. We saw not the vision ourselves, 
nor can we yield our credence where 
our reason refuses to accompany us. 

"L'Irlande Apocryphe" b, then, 
the historv of Ireland, dating from 
the year of our Lord, 1844, and fad- 
ing away into the dim distance of 
somewhere about 1868 or 70. It is 
the finished picture of that political 
millennium Mr. O'Connell has pre- 
sented in passing glimpses to his coun- 
trymen at various epochs of his 
career, and of which we catch the 
shadowy promises, from time to time, 
in our national newspapers. 

It is unfortunate for the truth-like 
semblance of his volume that the au« 
thor should have been a Frenchman— 
no man's nationality adheres to him so 
closely. It is a moral epidermis, of 
which there is no divestine him ; and 
the result is, it continually peeps out 
through every rent of his garment. 
Wheuer he be an artist or an author, 
a genera], a statesman, a diplomate, or 
a tailor, a Frenchman contrives to in- 
vest his character with more traits of 
nationality than identity ; and while 
you might feel often puzzled to detect 

his condition in life, you never could 
hesitate about his country. This, we 
repeat, deteriorates a good deal from 
the *'vraisemblance"of his book. But 
we have learned of late to accustom 
ourselves to these things, and after 
having seen our " Robinson Crusoe " 
converted, in Parbian hands, into a 
very smart figure, more like a French 
hair-dresser than an English seaman, we 
can reconcile our minds to the equally 
absurd travesty of Mr. O'Connell into 
a likeness to Napoleon. But, indeed, 
this is excusable on other grounds. 
There are certain types in France, to 
which persons of all nations are sub- 
jected ; and a kind of hero-worship 
has distinguished that countrv for the 
last half century, and we, therefore, 
have little difficulty in accepting an 
Irish agitator with such a change of 
dress and decoration ; the more so, as 
the comparison is certainly flattering 
to ourselves. 

The volume opens with a brief 
sketch of ** L'Irlande d* AujourdTiui," 
— such he entitles his first chapter. 
This is, as might be expected, a ri- 
facimento of newspaper grievances 
against England — woes and wrongs of 
centuries back, brought to bear, with 
singular force of reason and logic, on 
present evils— explanations of die re- 
markable influence exerted on cor 
now condition by misgovemment in 
the .time of Elizabeth, and incontro- 
vertible evidence that Essex and Straf- 
ford were in league with Peel and 
Stanley, to rivet our chains. 

The intellect of the repeal partj, 
their rank, wealth, and importance are 
dilated upon with considerable force ; 
their high patriotism and grand philo* 
sophic views are extolled, and their 
superiority to the Saxon illustrated in 
glowing colours ; the whole con- 
cluding with the ardent hope of better 
things in store for the green isle, when 
her '< sons shall have their own again. ** 

In the second chapter, the curtain 
rises to the ** Repeal of the Union." 
The parliament is once more seated 
in College-green, where, by the way» 
with a perhaps pardonable blunder, 
—occasioned by the ambiguity of Mr. 
0*Connell himself — our author places 
the '<ConciliationHall$"andthe Libera- 
tor's progress down to the house, fur- 
nishes the material of a very graphic 
description. The writer's want of 
knowledge of our country mars, it is 

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Ulrlande Apocryphe. 


true, much of the point of this scene ; 
names of people and places are occa- 
sionally commingled, and mistaken in 
a way that injures the truthfulness of 
the ptctnrey bat, on the whole, the 
thing has a certain aur of bold and 
masterly vigour, we liked much on 

**He was carried** — it is of Mr. 
O'Connell he speaks — "in a triumphal 
car, over which a figure, emblematic 
of Hibemia, stood, from whose hand, 
at every motion of the bearers, laurels 
fell upon the head of the Liberator. 
Four crouching figures, representing 
the Saxon, in attitudes of cowering 
humility, caught at the wheels of the 
chariot, which threatened to crush 
and destroy them. An ancient Irish 
hard, with a flowing beard, and hold- 
ii^ a harp in his hands, performed a 
national melody, and to every chord 
of the * jig,' the tears fell in torrents 
from the moved bystanders." The 
"jig "• seemed to ns somewhat out of 
place in so august a ceremonial, but 
the foot-note relieved our scruples. 

" The Liberator looked around him 
on bis happy people, with an expres- 
sion mild, yet triumphant; his fine 
tele de camee — we really dare not ven- 
ture on this in Enghsh — made him 
seem more like a Roman emperor, than 
a man of modem days. He wore 
the Irish costume, yellow and white, 
with a large collar of gold around his 
neck : this, from its exceeding weight, 
was held up by two priests, of the 
Order of Mercy, also in their full 
robes. * Le dlgne Preire Higgins* was 
one of these. 

" Never, for centuries past, was Ire- 
land the scene of such tumultuous 
joy — the hour of her deliverance ac- 
complished — her deliverer present to 
grace the triumph." 

After detidling with great preci- 
sion, the whole order of the march to 
the parliament house, our historian 
presents us with a coup cTceil of the 
raterior — where, "on a lone bench, 
shivering and sad, sit the miserable 
minority, who represent the feelings 
of the Saxon ;" the patriotic party are 
not only distinguishable by their 
elated looks and triumphant faces, 
hot they all wear the ancient toga of 

Ireland, that beautiful heir-loom of 
their classic origin. The proceedings 
open with a high mass, by ' Ce Prelat 
distingue Mac Hale,' who sprinkles 
the members as they pass with the 
* ecm benite* — a ceremony evidently 
little in unison with the prejudices of 
the Saxons, who sit suffering spectators 
of the scene. The speech from the 
throne is read by a member of the 
government, but no address is moved 
m reply ; and after a silence of some 
minutes, Mr. O'Connell rises and ad- 
dresses the assembly. His speech, how- 
ever, contains nothing new, nothing 
we had not heard before, save an im- 
pressive appeal to the people to be 

*** Wait, my children — (mes enfans/) 
wait — even yet without impatience — 
but a little, and the island is ours. 
That miserable fraction, which sits 
cowering yonder, will soon be thank- 
ful for the very permission to escape. 
There shall not remain one, nay, not 
one in the land. The name of Eng- 
land shall be a brand of shame, and 
Englishman shall be as a title of dis- 
grace. This beautiful country, with 
its verdant valleys— its limpid streams 
— its delicious bogs I — its inaccessible 
mountains, was made for the free. 
Never shall the stamp of slavery de- 
file it. Were you made to pine be- 
neath such a yoke as theirs? Are 
you, who conquered every people 
over the face of the globe, alternately 
beating English, French, Spaniards, 
Swiss, and Germans— are you to fall 
suppliant before the Saxon ?' 

" Loud cries of * Never ! Never !' 

** * Long, too long have we borne 
with this. Our hour of vengeance is 
come ; forth then to the good work. 
Away with them.' 

*' The energy of the honourable 
member at these words produced a 
scene perfectlv indescribable. The en- 
tire house, with the exception of the 
Saxons, springing to their legs, with 
frantic cries of * We will ! — we will !' 

** * Hold ' — resumed the speaker ; 
* not yet ; I did but speak figuratively. 
I meant, you should not consume their 
manufactures, nor their produce, nei- 
ther buy with them, nor sell with 
them. Remember, if you trade with 

* ^ " jig»" est le chanson solemnel d'Irlandc, en usage parmi les ceremonies 
royales, et surtout, d'une grande antiquity. 

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VIrlande Ap^cryphe. 


tbeni) you are bondsmeil-^yy '<he- 
reditarj bondsmen.** Is not this 
lovely land sufficient for us? Can 
we not find here all that the most 
Aistidious luxury could desire ? They 
will endeavour, by treaties, to induce 
you to deal with them. I repeat it> 
they will try this ; but if — mark me— ^ 
I only say, if they do ' 

** The rest was drowned in a crash of 
uproarious tumult, in which the voice 
of Monsieur ^ Tomsteale,' the mem- 
ber for Tara, was heard exclaimhi^, 

* We'll cut their blood-stained handts 
off who sign the deed I' — a sentiment 
that met thunders of acclamation." 

The description of the capital at 
night is well done: — "The streets, 
biasing with bonfires, around which, 

* great, glorious, and free,* the 
populace dance in wild excitement, 
stimulating their spirits with party 
songs and violent diatribes on their 
now vanquished enemies. Some 
excesses are committed, but these 
are soon repressed by a general 
order from the Liberator, that *the 
hour is not come ;* and except 
the houses of some well-known Saxons, 
which have been razed to the ground, 
no great dama^ is Incurred. The 
military are called out, but by the 
new constitution cannot act, and are 
marched back to barracks again, 
amid the groans and hootings of the 

** Thus passes the first night of free- 
dom. The next morning displays a 
proclamation from the Liberator, con- 
veying his eternal gratitude to the 
people for their attitude of peace. 

* Your enemies wished you to break 
out; they taunted— they reviled you. 
There were two companies of foot 
in George's-street barrack, and we 
are but eight millions I Thev did 
all they could to be butchered, 
but you would not do it. No, my 
countrymen, we are a great people. 
I am sorry that elderly gentleman 
was killed. I had rather the two small 
children had not been burned also. 
But these are pre<]Kal outrages ; rob- 
bers exist in every land ; and I hear the 
children had got gooseberries in their 
pockets. As to the display of the 
gpreen flag in Capel-street, I am deeply 
grieved at that. This is premature ; 
this is insulting. Why not trust my 
words? I say — ^be patient. Ciwel- 
street I strike out of the map of Ire- 

land* It exbts no longer. I know 
no man who resides there ; and un» 
less the sainted and venerable priest 
Mac Shane interfere, I will order that 
no man shall traverse that street.* ** 

Events now press rapidly, one upon 
another* The parliament deliberate 
daily on the restoration of the forfeited 
estates, the only question being to 
decide upon the real claimants, in the 
multiplicity ^hich present themeelvee. 
A select committee is appointed to ez-^ 
amine witnesses, of which we have 
only space for a short extract : — 

" Patrick Muldoon, sworn — Knows 
the lands of Knock- Whack- Whulloo { 
knew them since he was a boy ; hie 
father was a tenant on them, and his 
grandfather also ; founds his claim to 
tne property on the fltct, that his grand* 
&ther was hangred for shooting the 
landlord, and his father transported 
for being present and assisting; he 
himself has since way-laid the present 
proprietor $ but his gun missed fire, 
and hopes the honour&le house would 
not attribute his fkilure to any want of 
good- will and determination ; always 
paid the repeal rent, and contributed 
to the 0*Connell fund, even when 
distrained for his own holdings- 
Claim allowed. 

** Simon 0*£>owell, an old man^ 
living on the lands of Kilmuckcree^wae 
out in *08 ; swears) that he murdered 
two gentlemen of large property in 
Kildare, and would have killed more, 
if he had time ; but as the troubles 
concluded suddenlv, he turned infor- 
mer, and hanged his younger brother 
for the murders ; believes he ought to 
have the lands in question, and would 
be glad to shoot the present occupant, 
when the ' honourable bouse desires.' 
Simon handed in a receipt for the rent 
and tribute, and a voucher for takii^ 
in the repeal newspapers.-— Claim 

« Mary Kennedy made the fire to 
roast her mbtress on, and hopes that^ 
as she died without heirs, something 
will be done for her. Always had a pic- 
ture of Mr. 0*Connel], and another of 
Father Mac Hale> in her house. — To 
be considered for eompensation. 

** Michael KHroy, a suitor for the 
lands of Whack-no-breena..^He and 
his three brothers, two of whom were 
hanged, and the third transportedU- 
swears, that no one had been permit- 
ted to reside on the lands in qoestion 

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Iflrlandt Apocrypha. 


fbr th« htt thirty jMrs* entirely owing 
to the exertions of his fiunily ; made 
grett SBcrifices /or the oaase ; was 
always a patriot in the most liberal 
sense of the word. Produces an old 
mnsket which^ he is ready to prove» 
shot more respectable people, than any 
gnn in the Queen's County. Paid the 
rmal and O'Connell rent to the day. 
Claim allowed. 

" Timothy lUley, twice burned the 
boose and offices of his landlord 
Bir. Weeks, of Scrubs, and finally 
frightened him out of ^e country; 
also* set fire to Farious hay and com- 
8ta»s in the neighbourhood ; never 
paid tithe, nor wouldn't for any man ; 
but doesn't like to shoot at people, e?en 
thouffh they were his ^lemies. — Claim 

The work now goes braFcly on.— 
Bishops beg that they may be relieved 
from their functions as legislators, 
"the danger of going down to the 
boose being consioerable, from the vio- 
lence of the BQob ;" and the conduct 
of the Roman Catholic prelates, so 
ootrageousy as to make their situation 
as irksome and unpleasant as possible. 
—An act is passed for ^* their relief.** 

The sesnoD is indeed an active one: 
£or bendes the committee of estates— 
the coi^iscation of the church pro- 
pertT is carried by a minority of tnree 
bondred and forty, to six. Monsieur 
Tomsteale — we still preserve the 
French spellinff-^ called to the upper 
bouse, under the title of Lord Skulk- 
about de Skulabogue; and Mr. Rae, 
also made a peer, his title being Baron 
Fag in Eags — hb armorial crest, a 
parse proper, with the motto — ** Crede 

Thirty.four other agitators are also 
to be created peers ; but their eleva- 
tion is delayed for want of clothes to 
appear in. A national grant is, how- 
ew, in course of passing ; which by 
the sale of the principal houses in 
Dabfin, wiD^ it is hoped, supply their 

The extracts from the newspapers 
of the period aU teem with the hilarity 
and happiness of the land, now revel- 
ling in th^ long-desired freedom. 
Some Saxons, however, still defile the 
><»)* and thi^ presence is felt as a 
natioDal disgrace. Their hour is evi- 
denth pasnng, as the following para- 
HP^ may a£)w :— 

^^ Considerable laughter was oauied 
yesterday morning at the Liberator's 
levee, by an aocount that had just 
reached town. It seems, that the ex- 
judge Lefiroid was turned out, and 
hunted by the Loughlin hounds. They 
met at Clochnidude, and turned the 
old fox out ov^ a fine sporting coun- 
try. They gave him twenty minutes 
law, and then laid on the dogs. He 
made a splendid run, taking the hill- 
side by Mr. Fitzsimon's cottage, and 
crossing the bog at Drumsnag. They 
ran into him, however, below his own 
house, and it was only by great exer- 
tions he was saved n*om the dogs. 
We owe it to Mr. Flattery that he 
was not eaten, which, as the country 
is scarce of game, would have been a 
great pity. The gentlemen talk of 
the Dean next week ; he is fleshy, but« 
they say, jumps beautifully." 

These are the pleasantries of a 
fine fVee-hearted people, and they are 
not amenable to the cold criticisms of 
the Saxon. 

But we pass on to more impor- 
tant events — the arrival of Cardinal 
O'Shanahan in Ireland, from Rome, 
with a special message from the sove- 
reiffn pontiff. He is received in state^ 
and conducted to the House of Com- 
mons, where he witnesses a debate on 
the grand question of the admission 
of ecclesiastics to a seat in the lower 
house. The debate is adjourned; 
but a bill is passed, and receives the 
assent of both houses, declaring the 
Protestant religion no longer to exist 
in Ireland ; no person of that persua- 
sion shall hold any place of profit or 
emolument in the land, neither shall 
he be admissible as menober of either 
house, nor his evid^ice received on 
trials; all bequests to him shall 
be deemed illegal, and intermarriage 
with him pronounced outside the pide 
of law; and children, bom after said 
union, illegitinMLte. Such as desire 
to emigrate, will receive a ''permU de 
depart^' or a letter of leave, at the 
alien office, on payment of the usual 

Ail applicants for the permission^ 
must mike oath that they have not any 
property in their nossession, whether 
m respect to ^ooqb, jewels, precious 
metals, or securities, and are, "wmJ^fidJ^t 
m a state of pauperism. Any one de- 
tected in an attempt to evade this law 

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VIrlande Apocryphe, 


will be punished by carding — a national 
punishment^ just restored, and in high 
favour with the people. 

We must pass over the author's 
account of the clearance committee* 
by whose Jabours all persons, unable 
to claim Milesian descent, are deprived 
of their estates, and reduced to the 
condition of ** state labourers." His 
account, at page 104, of these formats, 
is sufficiently amusing, and we recog- 
nise, even through the blunders of 
French spelling, the names of our 
respected Recorder, the city members, 
and other well-known individuals, as 
proceeding with shovel and pick-axe 
to work on the Donnybrook road. 

A passing allusion is made here to 
the state of Europe, in which our 
author informs us, all memory of Ire- 
land is lost, or, if preserved, only as 
of some fearful land of anarchy, blood- 
shed, and barbarism. " Little know 
they,** exclsdms he, " of the happiness 
of that disenthralled nation. The in- 
toxicating bliss of liberty regained.** 

It is in the indulgence of this latter 
feeling, that they abandon the tem- 
perance pledge, and burn Father 
Mathew, in effigy. Some have even 
instituted suits at law against that 
venerable character for injury done to 
their constitutions, by water-drinking, 
and a compromise is at last effected, by 
which it is agreed upon, that his reve- 
rence sKall present a smoking tumbler 
of punch to all persons coming to 
him with a temperance medal — an 
arrangement that has met with uni- 
versal satisfaction. ** Although,*' adds 
the Cork Sledgehammer of free- 
dom, **we are sorry to see his re- 
verence appear sinking under the fa- 
tigues of his office — and whether it 
is the late hours, or the lemon-juice, 
he appears growing rapidly thinner.** 

The national newspapers, too, come 
in for their full share of attention. 
They are conducted with all the skill, 
ability, and power, that characterised 
the early stages of the movement. The 
leading journal, the "Erin," being 
edited by one, whose travelled expe- 
rience has made him familiar with 
life, in its wildest aspects, even in the 
" Bush in Australia." Poetry, politi- 
cal essays, and light and graceful criti- 
cisms, vary the contents of each num- 
ber ; andwe],have abundant evidence of 
what they had so long predicted — that 

a national literature needed bat na- 
tional encouragement, to make it 
worthy of the land. One feature of the 
press, our author lays great stress on, 
it is this — all reporting at parliament 
or at public meetings, is denounced 
as an invasion of private right and 
individual property. Reporters are 
classed with '' informers,** and as sudi^ 
may be carded at will, any five free- 
holders forming a quorum. 

But indeed it were impossible in our 
brief limits even to convey a catalogue 
of the changes which are enumerated 
as taking place. One act of parliament 
decrees toe destruction of all public 
buildings which may perpetuate the 
memory of the Saxon : and in this waj 
the Custom-house, the Bank, Post- 
office, and Four Courts, are razed to 
the ground, which lies cumbered with 
the ruins. Trinity College is con- 
verted into a nunnery, and presided 
over by a certain ** Pere Tom," (can 
he mean Tom Maguire?) Liberal 
funds are provided, and to use his 
own phrase — ** on y* mene joyeuse 
vie." Long before, the statue of King 
William has been converted into an 
effigy of Monsieur Tomsteale, and a pro- 
digious quantity of carnation expended 
on the countenance. Nelson's pillar 
is now the tower of St. Francis Xavier, 
and the naval hero has been welded 
into a priest. The names of all the 
streets are changed, and new ones 
adopted, more in unison with the taste 
of the day — such as " CarderV* alley ; 
Whiteboy-row ; Terry-alt-terrace ; As- 
sassin's-avenue. Some less fashionable 
localities being called after great poli- 
tical or literary celebrities— such as 
Purcell's promenade ; Gavin's green, 
&c. Mr. O'Connell's paternal seat 
remains, however, unchanged, and is 
still known as Verymean Abbey — 
(qu. Darrynane). 

We have looked in vwn through the 
volume for any mention of those en- 
lightened individuals, whose liberal 
views were once in such favour with 
the party, but no where can we find 
any allusion to Anthony Blake, Richard 
Shell, Sharman Crawford, and a host 
of other equally distinguished politi- 
cians. Alas 1 our French friend seems 
never to have even heard of them, 
or they have been lost in the *' gurgite 
vasto" of the revolution. But we press 
on. England, long since wearied of 

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V Irlande Apocryphe. 


the hopeless task of retairiing as a 
pro?iace> what has proved herself a 
nation, declares gue*Ue se'en piisse 
^Xrlande^-^ihat she has done with it. 
The decUration excites no feeling 
whaterer in the green isle. They 
haTe felt their liberty too long, to care 
mnch for any formal recognition of it. 
Mr. O'Connell is crowned king, it is 
tnie> but the ceremony attracts little 
enthusiasm, and e?en his presence in 
the streets, with the ancient Irish cap, 
is not remarked. The first act of his 
rdgn is a revocation of all Saxon law, 
and return to Brehon usages, which, 
in criminal cases, simplifies the admi- 
nistration wonderfully. Each man kill- 
ii^ his enemy, and being killed by 
some one else in turn, divests Green- 
street of much labour and excitement. 
Coroners are done away with, but a 
permanent waking establishment, with 
drink, souffs, tobacco, &c., is held at 
all hours, day and night, in the Upper 
Cistle-yard. This is presided over by 
Monsieur Roa — (who is he ?) — who is 
styled grand national ** Lachrymist," 
and cries daily from twelve to four. 
The Irish lang^uage is declared com- 
pulsory in all siuts at law, pleadings, 
&c., the effect of which is to diminish 
litigation, and also to open the door of 
the legal profession to several native 
Wristers from Clare and Gal way, 
hitherto, by the tyranny of the Saxon, 
retained in bondage as herds and hus- 
bandmen. English costume is abo- 
lished ; and while the antiquarians are 
investigating the details of new na- 
tional dress, all clothes are forbidden, 
save such as are of absolute neces- 
otj, these being of native material; 
and so the fashions for the season are 
seen in corduroy breeches, ^eze coats, 
felt hats, brogpies, &c. — the ladies 
being attired, to use the language of 
the day, *' in Irish manufacture." 

But we really have neither space nor 
temper for more. This infatuated 
Frenchman outrages all probability 
in his extravagance, and ends with a 
picture of the land, torn by rival 
fiwtion, with a king in every province^ 

and a pretender in every county. 
Morgan John warring against Maurice, 
and Daniel against Fergus ; Clare 
against Carlow ; Kildare opposed to 
Meath; national bankruptcy^ barba- 
rism, and bloodshed, every where ; 
nothing triumphant but Le Phre 
O'Higgvns, et ses freres pieu$es~~md 
even for this, he finds a simile. 
Humboldt speidcs of a tree in the 
Andes, which flourishes most when it 
has ruined the soil it springs from. 

We have thus skimmingly presented 
our readers with the substance of this 
impertinent " brochure,'* which, in the 
space of something less than two hun- 
ted pages, disposes so pleasantly of 
us and our country. Although many 
mistakes, both as to names of persons 
and places — many blundered allusions, 
bespeak the ** squib" as French in exe- 
cution, we ' have heard it rumoured 
that the whole is a translation, and was 
originally written by a ci-devant 

This majr, or may not be true. The 
services of a renegade, if even they 
took a more argamentative form, are 
rarely useful to party ; and we would 
look with suspicion on the honesty of 
purpose of one who deserts from his 
own ranks " Thneo Dan aos et donti 
ferentes,*' The " Romans" may have 
their "hobby" as the Greeks had 
theirs. In any case the work is spuirtly 
done — the French flippant, well-turned, 
and epigrammatic, and the allusions to 
foreign politics which are thrown out 
carelessnr, en passant, display a know- 
ledge of European affairs somewhat 

There are passages here and there, 
which leave us in doubt whether at 
times the author was not more dis- 
posed to ridicule the extravagant ap- 
prehensions of all enemies to repeal, 
than to display the picture of national 
happiness and prosperity succeeding 
that event; but whether intended 
against Trojans or Tyrians, the thing 
is smart, caustic, and laughable, and 
by no means dear at its m^est cost of 
two francs and ten sous. 

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The UUhapt^UkUt^ LaltM Nabhim. 



crapter t. 

Oibello's oocopatloa'i cooa^A Utile by-plair— The last from the 

floorer— A farce after a traged/— A pecoliariij belooging to Gorkoniaiit. 

A BODY of carmoDy disappointed of 
farefly and a Imot of porters^ dreaming 
their ''occupation gone" for that day* 
lingered opposite to one of the Bristol 
ana Cork line of steamersy which^ 
about half an hour beforot had put 
into Coye. The rumbling of the ust 
car that had been hired* and the crack 
of the carman's whipy as the craz/ 
vdude made its way towards Cork* 
were still faUing upon the ears of the 

** Well, now," observed one of the 
fraternity of porters, who, in his ea- 
gerness for employment had trans- 
ported two gentlemen's baggage from 
the steamer to the shore* and who, in 
the hurry^ had been paid by neither^ 
'' well now* this is the raal thin^ ; — 
weVe nauthin' to do* an* nauthm to 
pay for it." 

''Sure an* isn't it betther than 
haTin' more to do, Paddy, than we can 
be paid for ?" inquired a brother chip* 
who was oogniaant of the boy*s over- 
doing himt f^ fi 

"^ad luck to ye," retorted Pat; 
"an' do ye think, Billy Darcv, that 
ivree wan is as sharp as a discharged 
polis*man? Ha! Billy* that's the ticket 
for soup!'* 

"I'm not sartin* jrot» PaL Two 
valioes her^ an' a big box an* three 
carpet>bags there* an * ' Run* boy* 
fetch away that other gentleman s bag- 
while I get out the price of the 
for ye*' wouldn't make pay 80up» 

" Take that — an' that— ve bosthoon 
ye I" screamed the enraged Pat* as he 
made some furious hits at Billy Darcy's 

"Thank ye," said Billy; and be 
received the compliments of Patsey 
with beoonung easQ and satis&ction. 

The enacting of the melo-drama 
which followed may be easily ima- 

During this scene on shor^ some- 

thing not very dissimilar was goii^ on 
on board the steamer. 

A lady and gentleman* the former 
very closely wrapped up In shawls and 
cloaks* emerged nrom the companion- 
door and walked towards the paddle- 
box. This couple had proceeded bat 
a few yards* when a little, sharp- 
looking man* with a blue bag under 
his arm, and a piece of dirt^-white 
paper in his right hand* stole after 
them. Just as he got dose up to 
them, as ill luck would have it, he 
stumbled against a coil of ropes* and 
went* head foremost* into the back of 
the lady. The fiur one's companion 
instantly obliged the transgressor with 
a rejoinder, which* being made by the 
foot, sent the tittle* sharp-looking man* 
his blue bag, and his bit of dirty-white 
paper^prawling a few yards furtner o£ 

"There, you unmannerly cub, yon!* 
courteouslv remarked the gallant; 
adding* " 1*11 teach you* sir ;" and be 
shook his clenched fist at the little 
man, and at the blue bag, and at the 
dirty strip of white paper. " Now* 
Jessie, love,** he continued, addressing 
the fidr one* who hung upon his arm 
with all the i^pearance of feminine 
timidity and a sick stomach* " Now, 
Jessie, bve» let us lose no time in 
taking leave of y<mr friemd on the 

For a sick and famting lady, it was 
astonishing how fast she made her 
way over the paddle-box* and how 
little fuss she created in settling her- 
self upon the best hack-car on the 
stand. There seated* and a little oar- 
pet bag placed beside her* her stoat 
companion left her for a moment, and 
walked hastily into the rine in which 
Patsey and Billy were getting up and 
knocking each other down as fast as 

"Boys* what are ye about?** de- 
manded Ihe ffentleman* of every body» 
in a voice f^ of authority. 

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2%4 Muht^tf Mitier LaHiai Nalhim: 


•"Nantiui^ tar," replied wwy body. 

" Poh I is H want of empbymeiit ?^ 

** BeGke it ia> yer hoDour^" replied 
9nty body igmin; and eyerj body 
who had a hat on toaebad it« and 
ererTbody who had no hat didn't 

« Well, then,** said tiie gentleman, 
throwing a yellow pieoe of ooin on 
the ground, '' there s a soTcreign for 

Some whistled; some shouted $ 
seme screamed. 

" Listen to me, now,*' continued the 
gentleman. All was silence. '« D'see, 
bojs, that little, sharp-looking fMlow, 
githsring himself up fnm the deck 
of the steamer?" 

'^Tes, yer honour>** said erery 

''Well, boySf— -if I know a bom, 
-^whj^he's one." 

«' Whisht r melo-dramatised eyery 
body ; and hats, and eyes, and ears 
were cockedf all ripe for tvau 

''Yes, he's a bum— an EnglisH 
bum I" reiterated the gentleman* 
"Now, if ye lore me, take hun the 
shortest way to Cork, boys I" 

Every one laughed, and said " Yis*** 

The gentleman jumped up by the 
ude of his fair companion; smack 
went the whip, round went the wheels^ 
and another car^ and horse, and ftre, 
were <m the road from the Cove of 
Cork to that celebrated city, where, it 
is recorded, gentlemen " button their 
ooats behind^ to keep their bellies 


On Us legs again-U3k>ing ashore and 

Cork^Charity left I 



s Httle, aharp-looking* man, hav- 
_ picked himself up from the deck, 
picked up his blue ba^ also, and open- 
ing it, slipped the bit of dirtr^white 
paper into a bundle of official Jooking 
documents, tied up with red tape. He 
then walked to the companion-stairs 
and called out for a earpet-bag and 
bat-box to be brought up forthwith. 
A dose observer might have seen his 
wary eye, every minute, look -askance 
o?er his shoulder, and take the picture 
of all that was going on on shore. 
His Idckii^ didn't seem to discompose 
him much, he almost seemed used to it ! 
The little, sharp-looking man, hb 
bbe bag, his carpet-bag, and his hat- 
box, all now most intiniately connected 
toj^ether, mounted the paddle-box, 
wtth ^ view of getting on shore as 
to as possible. This was no easy 
matter-^a phalanx of porters and 
carmen stopped the way. 

" Porter, yer honour,*' " Car, yw 
honour,** " Cork, yer honour," " Good 
horse, yer honour," " Can't trot less 
nor ten miles an hour," « Porter, yer 
honour," " Twintee of us, yer honour, 
aU waitin* for ye this two hours 1" 
wwe dioned mto his ears. 

The noise, and the craoking of 
whip6» and some oaths, and a tbo»- 

sand jokes,* and the good4iumoured 
way in which the carpet-bag was 
snatched by this porter, and the hat- 
box by another ; and the naturalness 
with which they ran off opposite wavs, 
and the eagerness with wmch six dif- 
ferent carmen endeavoured to pull the 
little, sharp man to six different cars, 
contributed to anger, and to annoy, 
and to distract, and to throw him all 
of a heap. He soon lost all patience— 
indeed, that went before his hat-box. 
He stamped, and kicked, and swore, 
and bullied, and vowed all lands of 
vengeance ; but the more he raved 
and roared, the higher ran the tide of 
fun* and the better was the acting, 
and the broader was the farce. At 
leng^ by dint of cuffing and coaxing, 
he got alongside a oar. But where 
were his carpet-baff and his hat-box? 
Another scene of confusion ensued. 
Two separate carmen had driven off 
with the baff and box, under the di- 
rection of the litde> sharp man, as it 
was said and sworn to by about fifteen 

" Where are they,--the monsters I 
the villains I— where are tiiey, I say I" 
screamed the littto, sharp man, from 
the side of the car» which he had 

* The desoription of the jokes among the carmen is taken from real life. 

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The Mifthaps of Mister LatitcU Nabhim. 


" There, — there, yer honour/' re- 
plied porters and carmen, all pointing 
different ways. 

" You lie — you He — you lie I" 
screeched the little, sharp man. 
" There, I see them — I see them I 
Drive after the robbers, jarvey." 

'< Will I take a car an* be afther 
thim, yer honour ?" asked a very de- 
mure-looking porter. 

"Will you — you — you jarvey, 

don't ye hear? drive after them, I 

• ** Here, yer honour ; here we are," 
simultaneously shouted the remaining 
boys on the stand, as they drove up to 
the car on which the little, sharp man 
was standing, gesticulating most fran- 
tically. "Here, yer honour ; we'll 
be afther thim in a jiffy/' and away 
they flew, flogging, and shouting, and 
stamping, like so many maniacs. 

« O Lor ! I shall go mad ! What 
shall I do ? Nabhim & Do-all, Chan- 
eery-lane, what'U become of you ? O 

Lor! O Lor!" The little bum 

regularly shed tears. 

"Hurra!" shouted out the porters, 
who had again collected round the car 
of the little, sharp-looking fellow, 
** Hurra ! yer honour, they've cotched 
thim. There they come ! See, yer 
honour!" Scarcely had the porters- 
ceased, when up dashed the return- 
cars, with hat-box and carpet-bag, and 
the miscreants who had trotted off 
with them. 

" We've got thim, the vag'bones !" 

triumphantly exdaimed the successful 
knights-errant of the whip. 

" Give them to me — O do ! — do my 
good men !" obsecrated the little, 
sharp man, the tears still numing 
down his cheeks. 

" Hand them over. Bill," urged the 
champion Patsey. *♦ There, yer ho- 
nour ; they're all safe." 

" Thank you — thank you, my good 

" All right," said Bill. « Yer ho- 
nour '11 remimber the porthers.'* 
Something bright and yellow-looking 
was thrown into the midst of porters 
and carmen ; a general scuffle en- 
sued, during which the car with the 
little, sharp-looking man, and his 
goods and chattels, didn't go the 
straight road to Cork. 

** Tare-an-ouns," muttered Patsey, 
as he scraped and scuffled with the 
rest for the, bounty of the bum, 
" tare-an-ouns, did any wan ever see 
the salt wather on a bum's face 
afore !" 

" Be jaburs, but he stuck tight to 
that little blue bag!" said Billy Darcy. 
** I wonder what was in it." 

"Oh, latitats, you may be sure!" 
observed some very knowing one. 

" Ha ! I've got it ; here-l-here ; a 
raal eoolden " 

" Fardin !" interrupted Patsey. 

" How like a bum, the cratur !" 
said Billy Darcy. 

"Ay, a crying bum!" said every 


A secret-service car — Street beggars — Lady and gentleman from the steamer 
they go — The arrival— Young travellers — Hotel facetiie. 


About an hour after the start of 
Nabhim and Do-all, from Cove, a long 
car, with four wheels, and four as com- 
pact looking tits of the old Irish breed 
as could be found in the south, stood 
opposite to the door of the George 
Hotel, Cork. Several persons intend- 
ed, to all appearance, to be passen- 
gers, walked up and down the pave- 
ment, saying little, but looking a great 
d^. The eyes of the party were 
constantly strained in the direction 
which led to the Cove. Watches 

were every now and then pulled out, 
conned over, and returned in silence 
to the fob. The only pei^son on the 
car was the driver, who looked very 
knowing, and no doubt he was, and 
who kept his eye upon the ears of his 
leaders, watching the cattle as they 
tossed their heads with impatience to 
be off. 

Round the car stood several beg- 
gars,* waiting, with very g^ood grace, 
for some one to mount it, of whom 
they might ask charity. Of these re- 

* The beggars here mentioned, and the conversation ensuing, is from real life. 

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the MishgM of Misier Latitat Nabhim. 


gnkr irtA&rs, two were remarkable : 
ones an old woinaDy seamed with the 
8maD-pox« and coyered up in a cloak 
patched all over^ and filthy to a de- 
gree. She appeared very aged. The 
other was a young, pale-faced, broken- 
hearted looking creature* with but 
few rags to cover her, and with a lean 
aod half-fed baby at her breast. These, 
8q»arating from their companions, 
walked to the off-side of the wheelers, 
toaskcharitj from the man on the 
box. The old body began to at- 

"Ah ! the hivtns rain dimonds into 
yer pockits darlint — but don't forgit 
the owld woman honey, who has naw- 
thin bat the charitee of good ehristins 
an the heavenly Lord to look to." 

The man on the box shook his head. 

" Shore, yer thinkln of me, honey — 
long life to ye for that same.*' 

The man on the box shook his head 

The poor woman with the child in 
her arms, sighed deeply, and half ex- 
tended her baby towards the driver. 
She said nothing, but the action excited 
the wrath of the old beggar. 

" What," exclaimed the crone, '* an 
is it to the likes of her, ye*d giv a 
fkrdin! — She's big enough and ualy 
eooogh to do her day's work, darhnt 
No, die owld, an the unparticled, wid- 
ont Either or mother, thim*s what yer 
thinkinof." "Ah!" she added, sink- 
ing her voice into a tone of persua- 
siveness, **ye'll remimber the owld 
cratur, won't ye, and the Lord of 
Hvin be your guide I" 

The woman with the baby now re- 
torted. '* An did I purvint you spa- 
kb, ma'am? I didn't interfare wid 
ye, an why should I be interfared 

" Is it you interfare wid the likes o' 
me!" indignantly replied the old wo- 
nwn. « No, no 1 What do you know 

^' Nawthin at all ;" meekly answered 
the pale woman with the cmld. 

•'Nawthin I" echoed the crone,— 
"nawthm! I should think sol My 
mil are respiciihle 1 an how could you 
how them?" 

" I never said I did," was the an- 

thim two black eyes ye were rollin 
about wid yesterday ?*' 

The meek beggar turned her dark 
eyes on the man in the box, and lif^ 
up her child. This, necessarily roosed 
the spirit of the old woman more terribly. 

'' Ha I is it lookin at the gintleman 
on the box ye are, ye vagabone 1 You 
look at gintlemin I cock ye up indade!" 
and then, in a sort of mock pathos, 
she drawled out, — "Poor cratur, poor 
cratur, an didn't ye make that same 
child to a soger, honey ?'* 

The pale woman's lip quivered as 
she replied ; — " It's not the likes o' 
you should be blamin me. Oughn't 
ye to think of the child yer own 
daughter made to the tinker!" 

" Me daughter 1" screeched the old 
woman : — "Ah ! where's yer brother ? 
Isn't he in Bottinney bay ?" 

A loud shout from the gentlemen 
on the pavement, the rattling of a car, 
and the clatter of horses' hoofs coming 
up the street, to where the four-horsed 
car stood, put an end to the dialog^ 
between the b^gars. 

•'Out of the way ye divils," shouted 
the driver, who threw a bit of shining 
coin into the hand of the pale beggar, 
— " out of the way." 

The strange car stopped close to 
the four-horsed car. Two people, 
one a lady, the other a gentleman, 
sprung from the first on to the second. 
A small carpet bag was j irked into 
the well of nie long car ; — the gen- 
tlemen from the pavement were in 
their places in a jiffey. The ribbons 
were gathered up : — smack, swish,—, 
went the lone fSonr-in-hand, — away 
darted the cattle, — while every one on 
the car laughed till the tears ran down 
their cheeks, and shook hands one 
with the other, — looking much more 
like a set of madmen, which they 
might have been, than about fourteen 
elderly gentlemen, which they deci- 
dedly were. 

The people near the inn, and many 
in the street were iust about inquiring 
of every one who knew nothing at afi 
of the matter, what all this meant, 
when a chariot and four, the sides and 
flanks of t^e horses, white with sweat, 
dashed up to the door of the Hotel 

"Yoo, ye drunken hussey! — where's A gentleman's gentleman,* and a 

* This description, and the interruption to connubial bliss, from real life. 

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n§ JKuiai^ <if Miiim' iMtiM Ifabkim^ 


Uiy*M lsd]r> drop! from the diokey be* 
hiiid the chariot* Hm st^ were 
let dowB in an iasta^t. Furet stepped 
eivt a real geotlMiiao, with his hair 
enrled, and loekiiig a little tumbledy 
and then a real ladT» with her bonnet 
eertainlj oat of ihape. Scarce had 
the head waiter got hi« napkin under 
his army or the words out of his months 
^Horses on» sir?" — when the new- 
arrived nearlj ran over him. 

^ Noy no/' was the haatj reply; and 
he who made it* nearly went throng 
the glass partition into the bar. 

** Private room — number ten^ ** 
screamed out the lady in the bar. 

** This way» this way, siry-beg par- 
don,*' — urged the waiter, as he turned 
the steps of a gentleman, on whose arm 
the lady hung, towards the stair- 

There was no reply. Both gentle- 
man and lady looked very conftised. 
They appeared as if they had escaped 
from the galleys, or had committed 
aeme special act of felony, or had run 
away from home with other people's 
clothes on I or, as if that was their 

laat ata^e upon their wedding d«|!^ 
Ah 1 this, indeed, wa« the case. 

Everybody in the hotel lauriied. 
The chamber-maids ginled* and ooots 
and the porter griimed like horses, 
and the boys in the yard poked each 
other in the riba. The ladV in the bar 
strughtened down her firock, and tum- 
bled up stairs to receive any com- 
mands that might be necessary. 
Chamber-maids rushed into nimiber 
ten by two's and three's, and be^ed 
pardon for mistaking the room. Wai- 
ters were very soUcitous about the 
iire ; every rascal in the house, who 
carried a m^kin under his arm, had a 
poke at iX» and a dust at the sideboard! 
—then came the post-boys to thank 
his honour, in person^ for his gene- 
rosity, and to hope that her ladyship 
had liked the beautiful views on the 
roadl — This, by the wi^, waa over- 
doing the thing; because the blinds 
were down. However it spoke well 
A>r the taste of the post-boys. In 
short, the bride and bnd^oom found 
themselves very much like the lion and 
lioness of the day»**we hope they liked it 


The last car from Cove, and the nearest route to Cork. — ^ That way lies ai 
ness"— The discovery — A fact neatly developed^— Lettcv te oorreqioiideate. 

About |four hours t£ier the arrival 
of the new«married pair, the first 
brush of the excitement having worn 
off, and the talk, and the iokes, and the 
titter about the thing, being chiefly 
oonined to the oo0ee-room, where new- 
eomert were dropping in with mouths 
wide open to receive all that was 
going, a little aharp^looklng man, 
preceded by a carpet-bag, and 
carrying undler one «urm a blue bag, 
and from the fore-finger of the hand 
of that arm, holding suspended^ a hat- 
bo9, walked very coolly into the ooffee- 
roomi and asking where the bell was, 
pulled it, and desired the waiter to oall 
the chambermaid iwd show him to a 

<< Do you stop herCf sir ?" asked the 
waiter, while he looked at the sharp 
little man from top to toe, evidently 
inking he was a queer customer— 

Do yon stop here, sir ?" 

<< Certainly," was the brief rq>ly. 

<<A bed-roQiP« sir ?" ^m interro- 

gated the waiter, perhaps more with 
the object of seeing something further 
of the little sharp-TookiQg man, than 
because he had ^y doubt about the 

"Yes, — abed-room,** reiterated the 
little sharp-looking man ; adding, ** and 
tell the porter to get his best brush to 
relieve my black coat from some of 
this Irbh mud." 

"Yes, sir, certainly," and the 
waiter vanished. 

« I perceive, sir," observed th^en- 
tleman who had pointed out the bell- 
rope, " that you are not an Irishman, 
or you would be better acquainted 
with the cross-roads of this country. 
You have evidently been dragged 
through the dirt." 

"Ol havn't I. that's all," said the 
little sharp-looking man, eyeing his 
bespattered self as well as he could, 
ana certainly not at all to his satisfiustion. 

" Tho' not bom an Irishman, ^ou 
are now^ 9,% least, fir^ of the §oil^ sir," 

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vhtt joeoaelj coBtiaaed tlie good- 
Bi l u rnd ffunt Wimn 

<«Fre^ am I thongfa?" remarked 
the fittk sharpJooldiig maiv— <<moro 
fit ihm vdoome» perhj^pt." 

" Not so," raoioed the &oetioii8 
(foL **A adM, coat oosta nothing 
m this ooantry.** 

« Don't it thon^. Mister What's- 
Tour-name," replied the heepattered 
(am* ''It oost me some hours' long 
riding from CoTe* on a vile maohiBe 
like bedsteps set on barrow.wheelsy 
nd fifteen shillings to boot." 

<<Sirr exdaimed Mr. What's-his- 
nsme^ with amaiement. '' Some 
bonrsy and fifteen shillings, sirr 

^ Shall I tell it o?er again, or would 
yon like a bit of a davy on it ?" asked 
the little sharp-looking man. 

''I beg pardon," replied Mr. 
What's-his-name. <' There's the wai- 
ter, sh*, and I see a chamber-li^t 
too.** Then crossing his legs care- 
letilj, and throwing bis feet on the 
fender, he looked fiddly into the fire, 
obsening to himself-*<< Well— that 
msn's mad." 

'* Shall I take yer honour's luggage," 
observed the porter, who held a bed- 
fight before the little sharp-lookinff 
niSD, to show him the way to his becU 

" Thsnk you, my honest boy, — no. 
I think I can manage it. — Go on lad, 

So the porter went up stairs, and 
the Uttle sharp-lookiDg man followed, 
sticking very tight to his carpet-bag, 
blue-bag, and hat-box, and breathing, 
at every step, harder and harder. 

"Ah ! yer honour, it's tight work, 
thit *gitting up stairs,' isn't it?" good 
bomooredly remarked the porter, 
who, for once in his life, found how 
pleasant it was to walk up stairs with 
nothing but a bed light m his hand. 

*• Blow me, your house is very high, 
mister chambmnaid," said the bum, — 
''and if I don't mistake, you intend 
me to sleep at the very top of it ; — 
somewhere on the slates !" 

''Hal hal" laughed the porter, 
adding, as a set-off to his mirth, 
though he knew what a lie he was 
*«Wing— .« yer not half way up yet, by 
no manes." 

" What! this is a kind of a tower 
of BabeU-is it?" 

" Yes yer honour ; we howld up 
our headi here, andnomistake. We're 

the head inn, where all tiit qnalilj 
ooaei; weddoiars too» like tmm in 
No. 10.- 

'< Eh ?-. What ?*-New married peo^ 
pie in No. 10 1 exoeUent I capitel \^^ 
Ha 1 here's a shil No, — 111 give 

it to yon in the mominff. Yes.*' 

The porter's hand, wnich had been 
extended to receive the overflowings 
of the bum's heart, in the shape of a 
current ccnn of the realm, suddenly 
dropt by his side— 4t was a sad disap- 

" Didn't you say, porter," repeated 
the little sharp^looldng man, as he 
pulled off his coat, — << didnH yon say,*' 
^-4uid then he emptied his pockets out 
upon the table, puttii^ a shilling very 
silly by itself, — ** didn't you say that 
anew-married couple were enjoying 
their blessedness in No. 10?" 

"I did, yer honour," replied the por- 
ter, his eyes resting on the lonely 
shilling, <«an' I said what was thrue," 
and he took another look at the bit of 

'' Just so,— .1 thoi^ht you did,*' re- 
marked the bum, and he mixed up the 
odd shilling with some other shillings, 
with the greatest apparent ease. 

*« Well," thought the porter, «if I 
don't sarve yer stingee sowl out for 
that same, niver mind honey;" — and 
then he asked aloud — *<Will yer honour 
have the hot water?" Alas! how 
easily some men conceal their villain- 
ous purposes : — especially porters ! 

" Hot — water— no ; I've been in 
nothing else since I landed. No, no, 
mister chambermaid ; but I'll tell you 
what : just take these mud-be-plastered 
clothes of mine and give them a r^'lar 
good brushing." 

The porter took the outer varments 
of the bum, as he divested himself of 
them, and quitted the room to make 
them more decent. 

Being a perfect man of business, 
and happy to have an opportunity to 
attend to the grave matter which he 
had in band, our hero now sat down, 
breechless as he was, to a small sham- 
Russian-leather writing-case, and com- 
menced an epistle to " Nabhim and 
Do-all." Restine hb head juurtially on 
his right arm, holding his pen very 
short, with his left leg thrust out, 
covered at one end by a very short 
and Very dirty sock, with a large aper- 
ture somewhere about the toe, and at 
the other^ being lost under cover of a 

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The Mishaps of Mister Latitat Nabhim. 


shirty never long, before it was inden- 
tured by the shears of time and use^ 
and watching every stroke of his pen 
with a look so shai^> that he appeared 
every instant as if he were going to 
bite his own nose off. Thus seated, 
the little sharp-looking man wrote as 
follows :— . 

•• Cork, • 

** Gents. — We steamed it from 
Bristol in good time. A day's delay 
would have ruined us. I'm certain he 
was aboard : why did'nt you take him^ 
you'll say. Very true : why didn't I ? 
Because he was stowed away among 
the women. I'm blowed 1 but he was 
in woman's togs I Arrived at Cove» I 
kept an eye on the women. He didn't 
show till every one was eone : when, 
all of a sudden, a gent who remained 
in the state cabin, rushed to the ladies' 
cabin, and tucked my friend under his 
arm, both going it, uke a pair of cats, 
up the cranky steps which lead up on 
deck. I followed: got my bit of 
parchment out — just had my hand on 
him, when over I went across a heap 

of ropes, and in I (Mtched into the 
back of the gent. He that was with 
him, lent me a precious kick for my 
pains. When I got up again, the 
bird was flown : so, away I lew too. 
O ! it was such a flight I Talk of the 
civilisation of this country! Whj, 
the people are nearly all naked ; and 
the highways dirt heaps. The Thames 
banks are clean to them ! 

** After a deal of fktigue, I hence 
arrived in Cork. Only think— my 
eyes, ain't it good I that*s all! I'm 
in the very inn with the happy couple 
that cut me in the steamer in such 
style I Won't I give them leave to cot 
me again ? Ha ! don't they wish ! 

<' The next steamer will, I hope, 
convey back to England one the firm 
cannot do without. Mind, Do-all, 
we'll never come to Ireland again. 

** I must see the sheriff this evening. 
So, no more for the present, from— 
*« Yours, 
*' Latitat Nabhim. 

*" To Mann. Nabhim and Do-flU, 
^ Qianceiy-laiiei London.'* 

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Life of Gerald Griffin, 



A higb-souled and enthosiastio ge- 
niusy deeply-seated sensibilityy warm 
domestic affections^ a most tender con- 
science^ were the leading traits of 
character in the subject of the memoir 
before us ; and very endearing as such 
qualities are at all times, we are not 
surprised they are reciprocated by his 
biographer, and have given their 
colouring to his work, — especially 
when that biographer was an attached 
brother. Without any striking inci- 
dents to characterize it, the life of 
Gerald Griffin was not without its 
tincturing of romance. Some of his 
early struegl^ in London, as a literary 
man, would remind us of Otway and 
Savage, and the marvellous boy of 
Bristol, Chatterton ; while his unripe 
death among the Capuchins of Cork, 
introduces a new scene and new asso- 
ciations altogether. But let us not 

Gkeald Griffin was born in Lime- 
rick, m a part of the city called King's 
Island, on the 12th of December, 
1803. He waa the youngest of nine 
sons. His earliest preceptor was a 
Mr. M'Eligot, one of those amusing 
Irish pedagogies whose race is now 
nearljT extinct — a man of great natural 
alnlities, who was in every re8|>ect 
self-taught, and puffed up to the high- 
est inflation of pomposity by reason of 
lus acquirements. M'£Iigot, thoufi^h 
lonff since defunct, is still one of the 
** characters" of Limerick, and his 
history b too good to be passed 

** One dav at a laree and respectable 
•diool in this city QLimerick), when 
the master was eneaeed as usual with 
his scholars, t^ oad-Tooking, half-clad 
fipre, bare-foot and bare-headed, flung 
hmuelf into the room, after the manner 
of a tambting-boy — moved towards 
him, walking on his bands — and pre- 
•ently springing to his feet, stood 
vpright before him. It was Richard 

M'EUgot * What do you want r said 
the astonished master. * Emplovment,* 
jaid the stranger^* I don*t like my 
father's trade, and I'm sick of it.*— 

' What can you do then ?* inquired the 
master. * I can write/ said the other. 
* Well, then, let us see.' He sat down, 
took a pen, and wrote a hand so exqui- 
site, that it could scarcely be distin- 
guished from an engraving. He was 
immediately engaged as writiner-master 
to the school, and was soon induced by 
one of the more advanced scholars to 
learn the classics, to which, as well as 
to other studies necessary to a teacher, 
he devoted himself with so much energy, 
and made such progress, that he soon 
had the proud satisfaction of raising 
himself from the bumble condition I 
have described, to that of a most respeo- 
table classical teacher in the city. 

**Hi8 success in these pursuits seems 
to havo affected him with a deeree of 
conceit and pedantry, from which few 
would perhaps be free in the same cir- 
cumstances. I remember one of his 
advertisements about opening school 
after the Christmas vacation, which 
begun : — * When ponderous polysylla- 
bles promulgate professional powers,' 
&C. &c. Mr. T. M. O'Brien, to whose 
school my brother was sent at a later 

Eeriod to complete his education, was 
imself pursume his studies at the 
period of the incident above-mentioned, 
and was present when M*£ligot intro- 
duced himself to the master's attention 
in the extraordinary manner I have de- 
scribed. O'Brien was a man of very 
refined taste — of superior ability — pas- 
sionately fond of the classics — an elegant 
classical scholar, and was the same 
who, by much persuasion, prevailed on 
M*Eligot to turn his attention to them. 
On one occasion, when they were ei:joy- 
ing themselves together with some 
fnends, the latter suddenly called out 
to him in a very mixed company, to 
translate a certain passage in Horace. 
Though O'Brien felt the absurdity of 
such a proposal, at such a time, yet, 
either his vanity or his character as a 

{mblic teacher made him think the chal- 
enee was not one that could be safely 
declined. He accordingly translatea 
the passage in such a maimer, as seemed 
to be faultless. M'Eligot commended 
the effort with a most amusingly patron- 
izing air. A new sentence was civen, 
of which his interpretation was found 
equally satisfactory. Upon which M*Eli- 
got said, * Well done, Tom ! — *pon my 

* Life of Gerald Griffin. By his Brother. London: SimpUn and Marshall. 1843. 
Vol. 3CXUI.— No. 134. m 

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Life of Gerald Griffin. 


word, very well done—yon hare trans- 
lated these passages very well indeed^- 
but look 1 Tom ! — he dipped his finger 
in a tumbler o\' punch that stood before 
him, and allowing a drop to remain sus- 
pended on the end of it, fixed his eyes 
on O'Brien, and said, with the utmost 
gravity — *Y(m are no more to met than 
tkU drop, is to the ocean /' *' 

Under the ferule of this Limerick 
Matt Kavanagh, youn? Gerald and 
his brothers were placed, though they 
had well nigh lost the benefit of his 
tuition through the inadvertence of 
their mother : — 

** My mother went to the school with 
the boys, on the first day of their en- 
trance. * Mr. M*Eligot,' said she, *you 
wlU oblige me very much by paying 
particular attention to the boys' pro- 
nunciation, and making them perfect in 
their reading.' He looked at her 
with astonishment. * Madam,' said he 
abruptly, • you had better take your 
children home — I can have nothing to 
do with them.' She expressed some 
surprise. * Perhaps, Mrs. Griffin,* said 
he, after a pause, * you are not aware 
that there are only three persons in 
Ireland, who know how to read.* — 
*' Three !' said she. * Yes, madam, 
there are only three — the Bishop of Kil- 
laloe, the Earl of Clare, and your 
humble servant. Reading, madam, is a 
natural gift, not an acquirement. If 
YOU choose to expect impossibilities, you 
bad better take* your children home.' 
My mother found much difficulty in 
keeping her countenance, but confess- 
ing ner ignorance of this important fact, 
sl^a gave him to understand that she 
would not look for a degree of perfec- 
tion so rarely attainable, and the matter 
•was made up." 

In 1810, the family moved to a 
country place twenty-eight miles from 
Limericky situated on the banks of the 
Shannon, and bearing the fanciful 
name of Fairy Lawn. Here the boy- 
hood of Gerald Griffin was spent, and 
the early impressions of Nature which 
he here received, never departed from 
his heart, until that heart was cold 
for ever. Continually in his poems, 
and tales, and sketches, long after, does 
he recur to the scenes of these young 
days, and dwell upon them with undi- 
minished fondness. The following 
most musical, most melancholy, lines 
were addressed by him to a sister in 
Americay and show )iow, ami4 the de- 

sert of London, his memories were 
faithful to him. We know nothing 
sweeter in the lang^oage :— 

" Know ye not that lovelv river? — 
Know ye not that smihng river ? . 
Whose gentle flood. 
By cliff and wood. 
With wildenng sound goes winding 
Oh ! often yet with feeling strong. 
On that dear stream my memory 
And still I prize its murmuring 
For by my childhood's home it wan- 
ders 1 

Know ye not» Ice 


'* There's music in each wind that 
Within our native valley breathing; 
There's beauty in each flower that 
Around our native woodland 
The memory of the brightest joys 
In childhood's happy mom that 
found us, 
Is dearer than the richest toys. 
The present vainly sheds around us. 
Know ye not, kc 

** Oh, sister ! when 'mid doubts and 
That haunt life's onward journey 
I turn to those departed years. 

And that beloved and lovely river ; 
With sinking mind and bosom riven. 
And heart with lonely anguis^ 
aching ; 
It needs my long-taught hope in 
To keep that weary heart from 

Know ye not, &c." 

Under the affectionate care of an 
excellent mother, the mind of young 
Griffin grew in strength, and gradu- 
ally expanded itself. He was besides 
fortunate at this time to fall into the 
hands of a teacher infinitely superior 
to his Limerick one, and from him hd 
received that turn for elegant litera- 
ture which decided the after-part of 
his life. He was yet a mere child, 
but it was even so that his mind was 
thus permanently influence4 :— 

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Life of Gerald Gr^n. 


''Soon afler our arrival at Fairy 
Lawn, a tutor was ' engaged to attend 
US for some honrs ererj day. He was 
a man of great integrity, of very indns- 
trioos habits, an excellent English scho- 
lar, a good grammarian, and wrote a 
beantiral hand. He was very fond of 
qaoting 8hakspeare, Goldsmith, and 
Pope ; and the first lines of onr copies 
almost aJwars consisted of some striking 
sentiment from one of these authors. 
Goldsmith, however, seemed his great 
faTonrite, and he frequently repeated 
long extracts from the • Deserted Vil- 
lage,' and other poems, which, if it were 
not for their extraordinary sweetness 
and troth, would hare become very un- 
popular with us from the flippancy and 
settled accent with which, from long 
familiarity, the finest thoughts in them 
were expressed. Even with tUl their beau- 
ties, this constant iteration was subject- 
ing them to a very severe test. Besides 
the loss of that novelty and freshness 
which drives the world eternally to seek 
for something new, and to prise origi- 
nality in every production, the most 
beautiful pictures in them were associ- 
ated with tones and inflexions of the 
voice not always agreeable, and which 
were seldom calculated to convey fully 
the depth and tenderness of the author s 
meaning ; yet I well remember that even 
at this early time, and under all these 
disadvantafi^es, they laid a strong hold 
<m my brother's imagination. This was 
the cave, particularly with many exqui- 
site passages in the * Traveller,' and 
those charming scenes and touching de- 
lineations of character in the ' Deserted 
Village,' M'hich when once read, whe- 
ther in childhood, youth, or age, can 
never be forgotten. He repeated them 
frequently to me, and made remarks on 
them which I now forget ; but his fa- 
vourite part seemed to be the descrip- 
tion of the clergyman, and the village 
schoolmaster, together with that en- 
chanting apostrophe to poetry at the 
close of the latter poem. On goine 
over hb papers lately, I have found 
among them a manuscript copy of this 
beautiful poem, which seems, by the 
date, to have been given him when he 
was about ten years of age, and is in 
the hand-writinp: of that fond parent 
who cherished his rising love of litera- 
ture with a mother's warmest aspira- 
tions. It begins without any title, but 
at the foot of the last page is written, 
hi the same hand, the words * Deserted 
Village, an invaluable treasure.' I men- 
tion these matters just to enable the 
reader to judge how far they may have 
ioftnenoed his subsequent tastes. It is 
not, perhaps, in every instance easy to 
determine to what degree true genius 

is dependent upon circumstances for its 
development. Even if we suppose it is 
to be often independent of tnem, (and 
there are facts that show it will some- 
times force itself upward, under the 
accumulated pressure of every disad- 
vantage,) it is still not easy to say how 
far the application of its efforts to any 
particular branch of art, or the direc- 
tion of its taste in the department it 
selects may be under its control ; but 
I cannot help thinking that such sweet 
scenes being presented to his mind at 
this early and susceptible age, may 
have produced a lasting impression, and 
may have had something to do in form- 
ing that delicacy of thought, and that 
passion for Truth and Nature, by which 
his writings were afterwards distin- 
guished, and which were such strong 
characteristics of that poet, to whom he 
seems in many respects, in the tone and 
colouring of his ideas, to have borne a 
very marked resemblance." 

Our author bea^an soon to read^ and 
write, and think for himself ; and com- 
posingy even at this age, was quite a 
pastime to biin : — 

" The circumstances under which Ge- 
rald wad placed, therefore, though they 
did not afford opportunities for exten- 
sive or varied information, were not, on 
the whole, unfavourable to the cultiva- 
tion of literature, and his early love of 
it was remarkable. It evinced itself at 
this time by his generally sitting to his 
breakfast or tea with a book before 
him, which he was reading, two or 
three under his arm, and a few more on 
a chair behind him ! This was often a 
source of amusement to the rest of the 
family. He had a secret drawer' in 
which he kept his papers, and it was 
whispered that he wrote scraps and put 
them there, but he was such a little fel- 
low then that it was thought to be in 
imitation of one of his elder brothers, 
who had a strong taste for poetry ; and 
as it did not, on this account, excite the 
least curiosity, no one ever tried to see, 
or asked him a question about them. 
My mother met bun one night going to 
his room with several large octavo vo- 
lumes of * Goldsmith's Animated Na- 
ture,' under his arm. ' My dear ohUd,' 
said she, with astonishment, * do you 
mean to read all those great books 
before morning?' He seemed a little 

Euzzled, but looking wistfully at the 
ooks, and not knowing which to part 
with, said he wanted them all, upon 
which he was allowed to take them. 

He made a blank book, and many ot 

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Life ef Gerald Griffin. 


hU hours of recreation were oocapied 
in copving pieces of poetry into it. As 
our library was not larse, the poetry 
it contained was very select in its cha- 
racter, so that any thing he could lay 
hands on in general, quite satisfied 
him ; but for the most part the pieces 
he copied consisted of Moore's Melodies, 
or extracts from his longer poems, which 
were written out with a care and com- 
pleteness that showed his high admira- 
tion of them, the air being marked at 
the head of each of the melodies, and 
even the notes to them being included." 

Oar readers will not grudge the 
length of these extracts, when they 
call to mind that in most cases ** the 
child is father of the man ;" and in 
the instance of Gerald Griffin, these 
were significant signs of his future 
destiny. Thenceforward a book was 
a necessary companion for him ; and 
in his angling excursions to the river 
referred to in the beautiful poem we 
have quoted, some favourite volume 
was uniformly thrust into his coat- 
pocket, and thence extracted while 
awaiting his luck. A dreamy child 
he thus began too soon to walk alone ; 
visions and imaginations gathered 
about him, and while they turned the 
living realities into shadows, made of 
his shadows almost living realities. 
In short, the schoolboy of eleven was 
made a poet. 

We must glance past his triumphs 
with the rod and gun, merely men- 
tioning that he showed his ingenuity 
in manufacturing his own hooks, and 
on finding in some old volume a recipe 
for making gunpowder, set about com- 
pounding that article, and actually 
succeeded. We do not say that the 
last was as ffood as the produce of the 
Dartford Mills, or that he excelled 
his townsman, O'Shaughnessy, in the 
making of the former; but he cer- 
tainly dbplayed a very Robinson Cru- 
soe-ish independence of spirit, and 
began thus early to do for himself in 
this work-o'-day world. He was sent 
back to his native town in 1814, to 
Mr. O'Brien's school, from whom he 
imbibed a little Latin, and less Greek, 
and soon rose to the head of the form, 
and became the favourite scholar. In 
a few years after this, the happy es- 
tablishment at Fairy Lawn was broken 
up ; Gerald's father and mother, with 
most of their family, emigrated to the 
United States^ chiefly at the solicita- 

tion of the eldest son, who had served 
in the thirty-seventh regiment in Ca- 
nada, and was now on half-pay. Two 
sisters, and three of the broUiers, in- 
cluding Gerald, remained in Ireland, 
and fixed themselves in the village of 
Adore, ten miles from Limerick. 
Adare is renowned for its monastic 
ruins and other antiquities, and boasts 
of three abbeys nearly perfect, and an 
old castle uf the Earl of Desmond, 
dbmantled in 1657 by Cromwell's 
orders. ** Gerald took the greatest de- 
light in wandering with his sister 
through those sweet scenes, steaHnff 
sometimes at dusk of evening through 
the dim cloisters of the abbey, and 
calling to mind the time when re- 
ligion held her undisturbed abode 
there — when the bell tolled for morn- 
ing prayer, or the vesper-hymn, or the 
sounds of war or revelry were heard, 
in startling contrast, from the adja- 
cent castle. All these ruins, particu- 
larly the religious ones, affected him 
with a warm and reverent enthusiasm, 
and his familiarity with them at this 
time produced an impression, which 
was never entirely lost during the high- 
est flights of his literary ambition, and 
which was awakened, and gathered 
new strength again, at a later period* 
when he perceived the hollo wness of 
such an aim." His contiguity to Li-\, 
merick afforded him literary advan- ' 
tages he had not before possessed, and 
about this time he made the acquaint- 
ance in that city, of the steadiest 
friend of his life, Banim, the author 
of « Tales of the O'Hara Family." 
He now joined a Thespian Society, 
and acquired a taste for the drama, 
which began with his writing pieces 
at this time for private theatricals, 
and ended in the play of ** Gisippus," 
that took the world by surprise in 
1842. We find him next, when barely 
in his eighteenth year, editor of a 
Limerick newspaper. 'The followiDg 
is a characteristic extract from a let- 
ter to his mother, which teUs this :— . 

** I was applied to a short time since 
by M*Donnell of the Advertiser, to ma- 
nage his paper, and did so for about a 
month, but could not get him to come 
to any reasonable settlement. I saw, 
moreover, that it was a sinking concern. 
Though a fine, large, well-printed jour- 
nal, having a dashme appearance, it is 
only a pamted sepulchre, ^ven if be 

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Life of Gerald Griffin. 


had inswered my expectations, I should 
still ha?e considered the editing' of such 
a paper a most disagreeable office, for, 
although it possessed a little liberality, 
it is in reality quite dependoit upon the 

EiTemment. His manner of consider- 
g my ideas would have amused me 
mndi, if I was not so heartily sick of 
his trifling and timidity. When I wrote, 
he always threw the proclamations into 
one scale, and the article *de qnoi il 
s'agitoit,' into the other ; and if all did 
not tally, the latter was sure to be ex- 
ploded. His maxim was to ' please the 
Castle ;' and I, insignificant as my opi- 
nions were, wished to tell a little truth, 
which would not by any means be al- 
ways pleasinfi^ to the Castle. A few 
days since, after I had ceased going to 
H 'Donnell's, he called to me, and with 
a Tery long face told me, that an article 
which I had inserted *had pulled the 
Castle about his ears,' and that he had 
got by that day's mail a severe * rap on 
the knuckles' for it. This * rap on the 
knuckles' I aftarward learned from him- 
self was nothing less than a peremptory 
order to withdraw the proclamations, 
and I felt really uneasy at having been 
the means of such a ruinous injury to 
his establishment; although if I had 
foreseen any such consequence, I should 
he very sorry through so vain a weakness 
as an eagerness to display elevated feel- 
mgs, to do so against the interest of a 
poor man who ^uld only hope to main- 
tain his place with them by doing as they 
wished. To make some amends, there- 
fore, I filled two columns of an after pub- 
Kcation with a truly editorial sketcn of 
the life and character of our lord lieute- 
nant, the Marquis Wellesley, most cha- 
ritably blind to all his little foibles, and 
sharp-sighted as an eagle in displaying 
his good qualities. It was my first step 
into that commodious versatility of prin- 
ciple which is so very useful to news- 
paper writers, but it will be my last 
also. Indeed, I could hardly call it a 
compromise, for he is in reality a wor- 
thy character. I have since found with 
much g^ratification, that the displeasure 
of the Castle was owing to a very diffe- 
rent cause." 

Gerald continued a few months more 
of this scribbling life^ and at length 
one morning handed his elder brother. 
Dr. Griffin, a finished tragedy, called 
** Ag^e,** founded on some Spanish 
story, and made known to him his 
resolve to trv the field of literature in 
London. This plav was afterwards 
destroyed by himself, but it appears 
to have taken bb brother, who was a 
kbd of goardian to him, quite by 
rorpriie. Mr. Banim also thought 

hifffaly of it. We cannot, however, 
help smiling at the simple declaration 
of the young aspirant, which was to 
<' revolutionize the dramatic taste of 
the time by writing for the stage." 
His brother did not second his idea of 
a literary life, partly from a desire to 
see him adopt some more profitable 
avocation, and principally n*om re- 
membering that Gerald had been con- 
fided to his care by their absent pa- 
rents, and this was an unmeet way to 
part with his protege, Gerald's other 
relations coincided in this view. One 
of his sisters tried to laugh him out of 
ambitious flights ; but all in vain ; nei- 
ther quizzing nor dissuasion could 
avail any thing ; and in the autumn of 
1823, before he had completed his 
twentieth year, we find him a denizen 
of the great metropolis. 

** I was under no apprehensions 
from throwing him naked into the 
amphitheatre of life, for I knew he 
would act a good part, whether van- » . 
qubhed or victorious," said good Dr. 
Primrose, speaking of hb son George ; 
and with some such fearlessness the 
young Irishman seems to have en- 
tered upon his arduous calling in the 
vast city. A few pounds in hb pocket, 
a heart as light as his purse, un- 
bounded confidence in what he could 
do, swelling expectations, and his two 
or three tragedies as living evidences 
of his powers — these were hb ready 
means for catching the world's ear at 
once. No idea of repulse or defeat 
ever presented itself to him ; victor 
he would be: and what a glorious 
thing to have his name handed from 
mouth to mouth! what so dear as 
such an immortality! what presents 
he would send to his beloved home- 
circle! what pride his old parents 
would feel, far away across the At- 
lantic, amidst the prairies of the Sus- 
quehana, on tidings of his success! 
Alas! how many like him, both before 
and since, have sought the same strug« 
ffle with the self-same feelines, and 
have been beaten down, and bafiied, 
and utterly crushed by it. Some 
wrecks come to shore, and are ac- 
counted for; but more go down in 
the solitude of the ocean waste, and 
never tidings come to men's ears of 
their foundering. Those poor prolid *,%. 
men ! — ^you may seek for them at Ae 
ends of courts, tenanted by washer- 
women and slipshod artizans, up high 
garrets^ and by fireless grates— cling- 

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Lifs of Gerald Griffin. 


iDg with desperate fidelity to the 
cause that is starving their bodie8> and 
blanching their cheeks, and breaking 
their hearts ; and who« neyertheless^ 
would not renoimce their allegiance 
to intellect for all the inheritance of 
the soul-less money-changers in the 
grand streets around them. These 
are men, reader, we may well feel for, 
and there are scores of them in Lon- 
don. And the end, what is it ? Some- 
times Fame, late, but enduring ; some- 
times the Thames; sometimes the 
mad-house ; mostly the lonely and un- 
beheld death, the pauper's funeral, and 
the thin covering of earth in a city 

Some of these cases come to light, 
and are wondered at. The rich man 
of the squares takes up the morning 
paper, and reads the " Distressing 
Occurrence," and lays down the sheet 
on his luxurious break£ist-tab]e with- 
out an interruption in the gay air he 
was humming the while. The proud 
beauty reads it, too, and it affects her, 
and she pronounces it "very shock- 
ing !" Why, one of the jeweb that 
sparkles on that taper finger would 
have been gpreater treasures than the 
dead man ever possessed — would have 
given him months upon months of 
subsistence — would have saved the Hfe 
of perhaps a Chatterton 1 

It was such a life that young Griffin, 
hardlv twenty, now entered on ; and 
with Its miseries and disaopointments 
be soon became acquainted. His tra- 
gedy of " Aguire," was taken by one 
of the stage managers, for the pur- 
pose of its being read, and its merits 
examined into ; but after three months' 
patient waiting, he got it back- 
rejected ? No. But ** without com- 
ment, wrapped in an old paper, and 
unsealed ; — unnecessary rudeness, one 
would say. At first he was unable to 
find out nis friend Banim, who was at 
this time in London, and whose ser- 
vices would have been of great use to 
him ; but when his search was suc- 
cessfy, he experienced a heart-warm 
welcome. Here is a pleasant letter^ 
all about Banim's kindness :~- 

•• London, Much 31, 1824. 

" Banim*s friendship I find everv day 
growing more ardent, more cordial if 
possible. I dined with him on Sunday 
last. I told you, in my last, I had left 
him four acts of a play, for the purpose 
of leaving it to his option to present 

that or Aguire. I antieipated the pre- 
ference of the new, and ha?e with him 
succeeded to my wish. He says it is 
the best I have written yet, and will be, 
when finished, ' a most effective pla^ !' 
but what gives me the greatest satis- 
faction respecting it is the conscbos- 
ness that I have written an origmal 
play. That passion of revenge you 
Know was threadbare. Banim has made 
some sueepestions, which I have adopt- 
ed. I wiU finish it immediately, place 
it in his hands, and abide the resuH in 
following other pursuits. He advises 
me to have it presented at Covent- 
Garden, for many reasons: imprhnis, 
they are more liberal; next, Gisippos is 
a character for Young or Macread? ; 
the former I should ra^er to undertake 
it, as I have placed the effect of the 
piece more in pathos than in violent 
passion. He wishes to speak to Toung, 
who is his intimate friend, before be 
presents it, in order to learn all the 
green-room secrets. Toung will be m 
town this week. Banim made me an 
offer the other day, which will be of 
more immediate advantage than the 
tragedy, inasmuch as I need not at^ 
the result. He desired me to write a 
piece for the English Oper».Hoose. 
nhen I have finished it, he will intro- 
duce me to Mr. Arnold, of Crolden- 
s(^uare, the proprietor, who is his 
fViend, and get me immediate money for 
it, without awaiting its performance. 
This was exactly such an offer as I 
wanted, and you may be sure I will 
avail myself of it. It is doubly advan- 
tageous, as the English Opera-Hoose 
continues open until next winter ; but I 
must see it first. Tou are aware that 
the performances are of a peculiar na- 
ture ; and the fact is, a tailor might as 
well seek to fit a man without seeing 
him, as one might write for a particnUr 
theatre, without knowing its perfor- 
mers. I do not speak now of the legi- 
timate drama, li you have ever seen 
Miss Kelly, you mav g^ess what are 
the performances of the theatre I speak 
of. In the mean time, I am pushing on 
my Spanish speculation. I nave mode 
a tolerable progress in the lan8:uagt. 
We spoke to Colbum, and had um re- 
commendation of Mr. Blaoquiere, whom 
ou may have heard of. He told us 
e had been speaking to Blacquiere two 
days before, on that subject, and men- 
tioned to him that it was a publication 
entirely out of his line. This was no 
rejection, for be saw no specimens. We 
intend to try the Row ; and Colbum 
said he had no doubt but many book- 
sellers would undertake it. You see 
our prospects get on slowlv, but every 
day I feel the ground more nm beneath 


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Life of Gerald Griffin, 


my foot, Bftnim offers rae many mtro- 
ductioos. He is acquainted with Thomas 
Moore — who was to see him the other 
day,— Campbell, and others of cele- 
bnty. Uffo Foscolo, of course, you 
hare heard of ; he asked me if I should 
wish to be introduced to him ; but I do 
not wish to know any one until I have 
done something to substantiate my pre- 
tensions to such acquaintance, ana to 
preserve it, if I can do so. You must 
not judge of Shiel's ability from 'Bel- 
lamira.' Of those of his pieces which 
have succeeded, it is, I oelieve, the 
worst. The less, I tMnk, that is said 
about my theatrical views at present, 
the better. If I should be damned after 
all this ! But no 1 that will not be the 
case, I am sure, for I have a presenti- 
ment of success. MHiat shoula I have 
done if I had not found Banim ? I 
should have instantly despaired on 
. . . .'s treatment of me. I should 
never be tired of talking about and 
thinkine of Banim. Mark me ! he is a 
man — the only one I have met since I 
have left Ireland, almost. 

" We walked over Hyde Park toge- 
ther on St. Patrick's day, and renewed 
our home recollections by gathering 
shamrocks and placing them in our 
hats, even under the eye of John Bull. 
I had a great deal more to say, but am 
cut short. 

" My dear William, affectionately yours, 
" Gerald Griffin.'* 

Our young author worked hard; 
and lived — barely lived — by reporting 
trials for the newspapers, and contri- 
buting to the periodicals. In the lat- 
ter case he founds what we should 
hardly have expected, that his anony- 
mous writii^s received not only atten- 
tion, but immediate insertion and high 
praise, from the very editors who had 
declined his personal communications. 
But he nobly fought on, sometimes 
fleeced by dishonest publishers, some- 
times receiving the most generous as- 
sistance from persons who were un- 
acquainted with him. His pride, while 
it supported him under all these de- 
pressions, at the same time would not 
brook his making known, even to his 
iHends at home, his privations ; and 
to ibis feeling of over-sensitive deli- 
eaoy we may ascribe the following 
painful anecdote: — 

'* An incident took place so6n after 
^e drcumstances I have Just mention- 
^" says his biographer, " which not 
^jy showed how deeply the feeling of 
^^pendence was flxea m his character, 
mproved that with all the knowledge 

of human nature which his writings dis- 
play, he had on some points but a verr 
slight ■ acquaintance with the worlo. 
The friend to whom I have above al- 
luded, and whose name, from motives 
that will be obvious, I am obliged to 
suppress, was one who had known him 
intimately from his childhood, and at 
whose house he had always, on that- 
account, made himself perfectly at 
home. It was his custom sometimes to 
call there in the afternoon, and remain 
to dinner, and these visits were latterly 
so regular, that when a day passed by 
without his making his appearance it 
was a very unusual circumstance. This 
gentleman, becoming unfortunate in his 
affairs, was arrested for debt, but con- 
trived to ffet himself placed with his 
family, within the rules of the King's 
Bench. Here he expected Gerald would 
renew his customary visits ;• but three 
or four days passed away and there was 
no trace of him. At length, remem- 
bering his circumstances, and the ni^ 
ture of the conversation they held the 
last time he saw him, and filled with 
good-natured alarm at the probable 
consequence of leaving him to himself, 
this kmd friend, disregarding the dan- 
ger to which he exposed himself by such 
an act, ventured one night to break 
through the * rules,* and make for Ge- 
rald's quarters. He found him in & 
wretched room, at the top of the house 
in which he lived. It was past mid- 
night, and he was still at nis desk, 
writing on with his accustomed energy. 
On a httle inquiry he foimd, that he had 
left himself without a single shilling, 
and he was shocked at the discovery, 
that he had spent nearly three days 
without tastinsr food. 

" * Good Godl* said he, * why did yott 
not come to me ?* 

***Ohr said Gerald quietly, *you 
would not have me throw myself upon 
a man who was himself in pris^?' 
* Then why did you not write to Wil- 
liam ?• • Why,' said he, * I have been &' 
trouble to William so often, and ne has 
always been so kind and so generous to 
me, that I could not bring mvself to be 
always a burden to him.* His fViend 
immediately insisted on his aecompany- 
ing him to his house, where he had hun 
paid the attention which his condition 
required. This midnight visit was a 
fortunate one, and showed him the ex-^ 
istence of feelings, the strength of 
which he had little expected; giving, 
at the same time, ample proof that 
Gerald's disposition was one which re- 
quired much watching." 

As a parliamentary r^rter, he now 
Ibegito to breatho tn^o frMlj»aadMl 

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Life of Gerald Griffin. 


an honest {>ride in the conviction that 
his own exertions would be, after all, 
saccessful. The Literary Gazette, and 
other distinguished periodicals, were 
glad to retain a young writer of such 
promise^ and all looked well. 

" I feel that, situated as I am now," 
he wrote to his brother, in the beginning 
of 1626, ** if no new mififortnne occurs, 
it is not possible for anj person to have 
a fairer course before bim ; and, not- 
withstanding m^ many disappoint- 
ments in the first instance, I assure you 
I have enough of my eager confidence re- 
maining, to enter upon the first trial 
with glorious spirits. 

Yet a great deal of what he calls 
the " dry drudgery" of his work con- 
tinued, such as arranging indexes, 
cutting down dictionaries, and making 

" You have no idea," he wrote, 
" what a heart-breaking life that of a 
young scribbler, beating about, and en- 
deavouring to make his way in London, 
is : going into a bookseller's shop, as I 
have often done, and being obliged to 
praise up my own manuscript to mduce 
nim to look at it at all : for there is so 
much competition, that a person without 
a name will not even get a trial ; — while 
he puts on his spectacles, and answers 
all your self-commendations with a 
•hum — um.' A set of hardened villains I 
And yet at no time whatever could I 
have been prevailed upon to quit London 
altogether. That horrid word — ^failure I 
No I death first 1 There is a great tra- 
gic actress here, who offered to present 
my play, and do all in her power to have 
it acted; but I have been sickened of 
such matters for a little while.** 

This tragedy was Gisippus, which 
was all written " in coffee-houses, and 
on little slips of paper." His own first 
thoughts on this now celebrated play 
are interesting. 

" Here I give you what I believe you 
have never had any thing of, a specimen 
of my tragedy- writing — the drama I have 
written since I came to London. You*d 
laugh if jrou saw how it was got through. 
I wrote it all in coffee-houses, and on 
Uttle slips of paper, from which I after- 
wards copied it out. The story is that 
Oredc one of the friend who gave up his 
love, who loved him not, to the fhend 
who loved her, and whom she loved; 
and "Who afterwards got fame and 
welJthy and forgot his benefactor. I 

have been compelled to introduce many 
additional circumstances, which I cannot 
detail ; but you must suppose that Gi- 
sippus, the generous friend, ailter num- 
berless hardships, arrives in Rome, 
where he first hears of the wealth and 
new-sprung pride and pomposity of his 
college chum, Fulvius, to whom he gave 
up his early love and happiness. Two 
words on the characters of the friends. 
Gisippus I have made a fellow of exqui- 
site susceptibility, almost touching on 
weakness ; a hero in soul, but placed 
with an excessive nervousness of feeling, 
which induces him to almost anticipate 
unkindness, and, of course, drives him 
frantic, when he finds it great and real, 
at least apparently so. Fulvius is a 
sincere fellow, but an enthusiast for re- 
nown, and made insolent by success. 
This is the fourth act, when Gisippus 
has not appeared for many scenes — 
when he was the gay, manly student of 
the Lyceum — and is supposed entirely 
forgotten, or not thought of, by Fulvius. 
He then comes upon the stage, after 
bein? persecuted for giving up Sophro- 
nia by her relatives, and appears a to- 
tally altered being, as you may perceive. 
The preceding scene has been one of 
splendour, and clash, and honour to 
Fulvius, who has just been made a 
praetor. Is it not the play I showed 
?" [Here is inserted 
the fourth act of Gisippus.] 

*< Fulvius succeeds m pacifying Gisip- 
pus, and the scene runs on to much 
greater length, but I have ^ven you 
enough in all conscience. Give me all 
your separate criticisms upon this broken 
act, bv no means the best in the book ; 
but the situation is original. It is, 
Banira says, one of the best acting 
scenes. I have had the bad taste to 
suffer three lines of poetry to creep into 
it, but I let them stand.*' 

Here is a melancholy allusion to 
poor Keats and his hapless love, in a 
letter written in June, 1825 : — 

*' I think it possible I may, some of 
these da^s, become acquainted with the 
young sister of poor K.eats the poet, as 
she is coming to spend some time with a 
friend of mine. If I do, I will send you 
an account of her. My Spanish friend, 
Valentine Llanos, was mtimate with 
him, and spoke with him three days be- 
fore he died. I am ereatly interested 
about that family. Keats, you must 
know, was in love, and the lady whom he 
was to have married, had he survived 
Gifford's review, attended him to the 
last. She b a beautiful young creature, 
but now wasted away to a skeleton, and 
will follow him shortly, I believe* Sh» 

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Life of Oerald Griffin. 


and hb sifter say tliey have oft found 
him, on snddenl^r entering the room, 
with that reriew m his hand, readbg as 
if he would devour it — completely ab- 
8orbed» absent, and drinking it like 
mortal poison. The instant he obserred 
any body near him, howeyer, he would 
throw it by, and begin to talk of some 
indifferent matter." 

In a subsequent letter, he adds to 

"Dining the other day at my friend 
LUno's, I met that Miss B— of whom 
I spoke to Tou some time since, sadly 
diaoged ana worn, I thought, but still 
most animated — lirely, and even witty in 
eonrersation. She quite dazzled me, in 
spite of her pale looks." 

We regret our inability to trace 
this young creature's history farther ; 
but no doubt she is long since in her 
rest, and beyond the grave has re- 
joined him she loved so truly, so ten- 

Duri]^ the well-earned intervals of 
bis labours, he encountered some 
•oenes, such as one meets with in Lon- 
don, and no where else. We shall 
choose out one or two : — 

"He used occasionally, in some of his 
evening rambles, to turn into a coffee- 
boose, somewhere, I think, in Holbom, 
where sonle singular characters, unac- 

r'mted with each other except through 
eveninr meetings, were accustomed 
to assemble and carry on a kind of 
Abctef, which were generally very en- 
tertainmj^, sometimes surpassingly so. 
A few of these were quick-witted spi- 
rits, that by the sprigntliness of their 
■allies kept life in the whole company. 
They were blest with that easy self- 
possession, and that flippancy of thought 
•nd expression, which, though not al- 
ways assodated with much talent, are 
MTertheless of extreme value in conver- 
>«tion, and, in a debating society, often 
enable their possessor to take the lead 
of, and outshine, persons of greater 
*bilitv and more solid acquirements, 
^^flrald, though he had never cultivated 
these npialities in himself, enjoyed their 
exercise very much in others, and ge- 
>*endly sat by, a silent spectator, 
amusing htmseli with the observations 
on character which it afforded. The 
entertainments of the evening were al- 
^^7> emlmpore, so that no one had an 
opportottity of preparing himself be- 
forehand. Sometimes they consisted of 
^^•cviions arising accidentally out of a 

conversation going on at the time ; at 
others, of some regular question in po- 
litics or literature, set up for debate on 
the instant ; and occasionallv of read- 
ings, or criticisms, or both, on the 
works of the most celebrated authors of 
the day. On one occasion the question 
argued was, * Which of the modem 
poets gave the most beautiful descrip- 
tion of the passion of love ?* The fa- 
vourites seemed to be Moore and Byron, 
but it was difficult to decide between 
them. Lalla Rookh, The Loves of the 
Angels, The Corsair, Lara, The Bride 
of Abydos, The Siege of Corinth, &c. 
had each its zealous advocate. When 
the debate had made some wav, a 
smart-looking dapper little man, with a 
pack on his back, came in, took a rather 
prominent position, unstrapped his pack, 
laid it on tne table, and Ibtened. The 
discussion became loud, animated, and 
earnest, the speakers beinp; as numerous 
as the poems they patromzed, and each 
endeavouring to support, with such rea- 
son as he thought most convincing, the 
opinion with which he had started. At 
last, after a prolonged debate, the new- 
comer arose. It was not easy to obtain 
a hearing, from the eagerness of those 
who were already enniged in the dis-» 
pute, but he began with such appearance 
of good sense and fluenov, and made 
some observations so much to the pur- 
pose, that he instantly attracted the at- 
tention of all, and convinced those who 
were most interested in the result of 
the discussion, that whatever his profes- 
sion might be, he was fully entitled to 
take a part in it. He expressed much 
surprise that no allusion had been made 
from the commencement, to what he 
considered as one of the most beautiful 
descriptions of love that was to be 
found in the whole range of modem li- 
terature, that of Don Juan and Haidee, 
in the poem of Don Juan, which, he said, 
ought to take precedence of all others. 
He seemed fully acquainted with the 
merits and demerits of each of the poems 
spoken of— descanted with CTeat judg- 
ment on their beauties and imperfec- 
tions — enforced his own position by 
quotations from the most remarkable 
passages of the poems he most prized; 
and, as he advanced, fell into a strain of 
eloquence regarding it, which excited 
the admiration of hU hearers, and drew 
down raptures of applause. All present 
became satisfied that his enthusiasm on 
the subject was deep and true, and that 
however humble his condition might be, 
it had not deprived him of those intel- 
lectual pleasures which a highly-culti- 
vated taste affords. Their surprise, 
however, was extreme, when he con- 
cluded a very animated discourse some* 

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Life of Gerald Griffln. 


what to the following effeot : — < I trust 
that all who have b^n listening to me 
are now convinced that the poem I have 
been speaking of is far beyond all others 
in the beanty, originality, and force 
with which the passion or love is deli- 
neated. If, however, there are any 
persons present who have doubts upon 
the subject, I am happy to have it in my 
power to remove them completely, for 
J have gat the whole poem here, puolUned 
in beautiful type ana paper, at a penny a 
canto I / — and he instantly pulled open 
his wallet, and with the rapidity of 
lightnine distributed a dozen of them. 
It may oe easily conceived how much 
those who had previously felt much in- 
terested in- the discussion, were taken 
aback by such a proceeding. A move 
so unexpected caused considerable laugh- 
ter, and rendered it quite impossible 
to enter seriously upon the subject 

This is well told, and the catas- 
trophe strikingly deyeloped. We won- 
der whether the poetic pedlar were 
the true hero of the Excursion — who 
had wandered up firom the wilds of 
Westmorelaad to try his hand» per- 
chance, ib the streets of London — he 
of whom Wordsworth spake : — ' 

*' An irksome drudgery seems it to 

plod on, 
Through wet and dirty ways, or pelt- 
ing storm, 
A vagrant merchant, under a heavy 

Bent as he moves, and needing frequent 

rest ; 
Yet do such travellers find their own 

delight ; 
And their huf d service, deemed debasing 

Gained merited respect in simpler 

When squire, and priest, and they who 

round him dwelt 
Tn rustic sequestration — all dependent 
Upon the pedlar's toil — supphed their 

Or pleased their fancies with the wares 

he brought. 
Not ignorant was the youth that still no 

Of his adventurous countrymen were 

By perseverance in this track of life, 
To competence and ease; for him it 

Attractions manifold ; and this he 


^ But no ! the trader was too keen for 
M, and wa8> no doubti a Brummagem 

bagman, come up from that nnirerse 
of smoke, steam, sweltering furnaces, 
imd cheap hardware ; and now packing 
ajbout the metropolis of the world with 
his sixpenny boK>kf and magic raxor- 
strops. There is a touch of mystery, 
and, withal, of the strangeness of 
truth, about the following, so at to 
make it worth extracting : — 

"I remember," Gerald's biographer 
writes, ** his mentioning a curcumstance 
which amused him considerably. Hyde 
Park was a favourite resort oY his, and 
during his rambles there in the evening, 
he used frequently to meet a person 
who, like himself, was companlonless. 
He was a youn^ man with dark hair 
and eyes, who might be thirty years of 
age, or upwards, with features rather 
pale, very era ve in their expression, and 
strongly tinctured with mdanoholy. He 
met him three or four times aoctdeotally, 
and he was still alone. The sadness of 
hb air caught Gerald's attention. Who 
could he be ? Some dyspeptic, perhaps 
some hypochondriac, or some moping, 
hopeless, moon-struck lover. But what 
diverted him most was, he very soon 
perceived that this gloomy solitai^ had, 
either from their frequent meetings, or 
some cause, taken a most unooBUMMi 
aversion to him. This amused him so 
much, that he was tempted to throw 
himself in his way oftener than mere ac- 
cident would account for ; and the an- 
noyance of the gentleman became at last 
so great, that its expression was scarcely 
at all disguised. On perceivin|^ this, 
Gerald thought any perseverance m such 
a course would be only a cruel persecu- 
tion, and he determined to put an end 
to his dbtress by avoiding him alto- 
gether in future, when the young man 
suddenly disappeared, and was seen no 
more. Grerald ceased to think of the 
circumstance ; but one night* about a 
fortnight or three weeks afterwards, 
being at the House of Lords« and hear- 
ing some nobleman'scarriage called for— • 
he could not distinctly hear the name — he 
planted himself close to the door of it, to 
get a good view. Afler waiting a little, 
to his utter amazement, who should he 
see approach but his sad friend of the 
park, who came within a few feet of him, 
without being at all conscious of his 
presence. On perceiving him he started, 
gave him a look of horror and astonish- 
ment, and darted into the carria^ with 
the rapidity of lightning, as if he had 
just escaped from the clutches of some 
wild animal. Gerald heard him mutter 
something like < Good God I' as he 
passed him in this rapid transit." 

Although Mr. GrifBn was U tUI 

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Life ef Gerald Grijlin, 


time fortunate enougti to have a drama 
of his accepted at the English Opera 
HoiiBey for which he was liberally 
paid> even before it was produced, he 
wiselj turned to prose literature as a 
field easier to move in, and likely to be 
attended with more extended success. 
With Banim as a rival, he prepared to 
describe Irish manners and cnaracte- 
ristics; and «< Hollandtide/' when it 
appeared, showed he had not miscal- 
culated his strength. It led him at 
once up to fame^ The wear and ie^ 
of a literarv life, which were increased ' 
by severe neart-palpitations, made it 
desirable for him to revisit his rela- 
tives in Ireland ; and in the beginning 
of 1827 he seized the opportunity of 
bis success to get away for a uttle 
whOe. The declining health of one 
of his sistersy a sweet amiable girl, 
made him quicken his journey home- 
wards, and he arrived in Limerick 
in the month of February of thll 

" Dear Gerald,'* the dying girl wrote 
to him, " a visit from you was a thing 
that had sometimes occurred in my dav- 
dreams, and I now dwell on it with the 
more pleasure, from the idea, that you 
most De pretty certain of it, or you 
would not run the risk of disappointing 
me. You will find me, I think, mncn 
ehmged, when you come. Will you tell 
me, why is Spring always represented so 
heautsm, and smilinjB^, and all that? 
If you should ever pamt her, pray give 
her an ugly, a very ugly face ; or, if she 
MMMl smfle, let it be vrith a countenance 
of puss, when she plays with her vic- 
tim, before giving it the cotip de grace / 
and if they ask you the cause of all 
this malice» say, that ' she shows no 
mercy to invalias.' " 

The brother and sister never met. 
The very evening before he reached 
lus home, her spirit fled ; and ere he 
arrived at the house, a meesenger 
ttoonntered him with the woful news, 
that his journey was in vain* Hb 
Uographer pamfully describes the 
eflR^t — how simple, yet full of mean- 
ing, are these words :— 

*< The shock to Gerald was dreadftiL 
He reeled, staffcered, and would, I be- 
lieve^ have faUen, but for those who 
were standing by. His features were 
vblently agitated, and showed signs 
of a most pain&il agony, the expression 

of which he made powerful efforts to 
control. He turned very pale, and 
drew his breath deeply four or ^ve 
times, but spoke not a word. After 
some time he became calm enough to 
make some inquiry into the circum- 
stances, and we proceeded on our me- 
lancholy journey. The evening which 
he spent was, as may be judged, very 
different from any he had anticipated!. 
He had not seen Us sister now for some 
years. He had always been sincerely 
and deeply attached to her ; and one of 
the brightest pleasures he had looked 
forward to on lus return, was the renewal 
of that cheerful intercourse, which he 
had often during his absence remem- 
bered as a blessing which could not be 
too highly prized. Had he even com- 
pleted his journey the previous evening, 
as his brother had done, he might have 
ei^oyed that blessing once again, but 
now all was at an end, and she who 
would have welcomed him to his old 
fire-side with more than a sister's fond- 
ness, was insensible to his presence, 
and lay before him, pale, mute, and mo- 

We do not want to heighten the 
effect of this scene ; but all who have 
ever sorrowed in a similar way, must 
intuitively know how it struck home 
to the poor wanderer's heart — such a 
termination to his days of lonely strug- 
gles-such a return rrom his long and 
wearisome absence I But these griefs 
are sacred. 

Man^ months afler, this bereave- 
ment dictated the following lines :— i 

** Oh ! not for ever lost, though on our 
Those uncomplaining accents fall no 

And earth has won, and never can 
That form that well-worn grief made 

doubly dear. 
Oh I not for ever lost, though hope may 
No more sweet visions in the future 

And even the memory of that pallid 
Grows unfamiliar with each passing 

Though lowly be thy place on earth, 
and few 
The tongues that name thee on thy 
native plains. 
Where sorrow first thy gentle pre* 
sence cross'd. 
And dreary tints o'er all the future 

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Lifs of Gerald Griffin. 


While life's yonng seal yet triumphed 
in thy reins, 
Oh I early fall'n thou art— bat not 
for erer lost. 

'' If in that land where hope can cheat 
no more, 
Larish in promise — laggard in ftil- 

Where fearless love on erery bosom 
And boundless knowledge brighten all 

the shore ; 
If in that land, when life's old toils are 
And my heart lies as motionless as 

I still mi^ht hope to press that hand 
in nune. 
My unoffending — my offended onel 
I would not mourn the health that flies 
my cheek, 
I would not mourn my disappointed 
My rain heart mock'd, and worldly 
hopes overthrown, 
But long to meet thee in that land of 
Nor deem it joy to breathe in careless 
A tale of blighted hopes as mourn- 
ful as thine own." 

A passing coolness which now oc- 
cnrred between Gerald Griffin and 
his true friend BaDim, might appear^ 
at first siffhti to convict the former of 
ingratitude, for he was wholly respon^ 
aible for it, were it not that it is ac- 
oounted for by the peculiarity of his 
disposition. Gerald had an absolute 
horror of patronage, or any thing ap- 
proaching to it; and he carried his 
dislike so far, as almost to run away 
from kindness when offered to him. 
Banim was too kind to him, therefore 
he considered it incumbent on him not 
to be so friendly towards Banim 
henceforth ; but a little explanation 
set all things right, and they became 
firmer and faster friends than ever. 
This feelii^ of our friend Gerald's 
arose from that mental darkness, 
which we have found to prevail ex- 
tensively in the world, and which has 
sometimes vexed us, heart and soul, 
in the case even of our own intimates. 
People will think, that he who receives 
a kindness is invariably the person 
obliged, and in this way they mi^e the 
one who confers it, to an equal extent 
a sort of creditor over him. Now, if 
there must be this profit and loss 
reckoning in the traosaotion^ which» 

we are sure, there ought not to be, we 
hold to it, that the account lies, in 
many instances, the other way. Our 
philosophy may be wrong, but until it 
IS proven to be so, we shall maintain 
it. Shadows, as we are, in these 
pages, and without substance as we 
ever have been from our cradlehoodt 
we shall yet say for our own insignifi- 
cant selves, that the permission to do 
a friendly act, is the greatest obliga- 
tion one we love can lav us under ; and 
that, on the other hand, in our solici- 
tation or acceptance of a kindness» we 
feel we are generally conferring the 
favour, not receiving it ; for they are 
few from whom we would seek such 
things. Hie locus est — this is our 
position ; and let Harry Lorreqoer, 
that skilful man in these things, be the 
umpire 1 

The success of the volume of tales, 
called ** Hollandtide," induced our 
young author to make a second amilar 
venture, and he returned to London 
in August, 1827, to make arrange- 
ments for the publication of ** Tales 
of the Munster Festivals.** These 
appeared at the close of the year, and 
were even more successful than ** Hol- 
landtide." The critics now began to 
load him with pruse, and the pub- 
lishers to vie, one with another, for his 
favours. The " Collegians** was pub- 
lished in the winter of the year fol- 
lowing, and crowned his fame. This 
highly- wrought and most thrilling tale 
was thrown off with little effort ; the 
work of each day being wanted for 
" copy" on the next, and printer and 
author keeping up a sort of g^ood- 
humoured emulation, as to which 
should outstrip the other in the race. 
Were nothing else considered, we 
should consider such a book, written 
under these circumstances, to be a 
wonderful one indeed. 

From this time forth we may date 
Mr. Griffin's growing distaste for 
literature. When £une was a thine 
to be desired, and looked and laboured 
for, he was willing to undergo all 
pains to secure it ; now, when in his 
grasp, its hollowness was too i^pparent, 
and he learned to despise it. With 
the determination to aoandon all lite- 
rary pursuits, he entered himself a 
law student at the London University^ 
in the winter season of 1828, and at- 
tended the lectures for some time with 
diligence^ but soon lost all heart for 

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Life of Gerald Griffin. 


^em also. We ibd him, in 1833, 
one of A depntation from his natiye 
city to the poet Moore, with the object 
of solicitiDg the bard's offering himself 
for the representation of Limerick. 
Onr pickings and stealings from the 
memoir have been pretty Areqaent 
ah^ady, and onr last shall be the Uvely 
acconnt of his vbit to Sloperton. He 
is come as far as Devizes, and has got 
the waiter np for information : — 

" Well, we asked the waiter : out 
eame the important question, * How far 
is Sloperton Cotti^e firom Devizes V 
' Sloperton, sir? That's Mr. Moore's 
place, sir ; het a poeU sir. We do all 
Mr. Moore's work 1' What ought I to 

have done, L ? To have flung mv 

arms about his neck for knowing so much 
about Moore, or to have knocked him 
down for knowing so little? Well, we 
learned all we wanted to know; and 
after making our arrangements for the 
following day, went to bed, and slept 
soundly. And in the morning it was 
that we hired the grand cabriolet, and 
set ofF to Sloperton ; drizzling rain, but 
a delightful country ; such a gentle 
shower as that through which he looked 
at Innisfallen, his farewell look. And 
we drove away until we came to a cot- 
tage, a cottase of gentility, with two 
gateways, and pretty grounds about it, 
and we iiighted, and knocked at the 
hall-door; and there was dead silence, 
and we whispered one another ; and my 
nerves thrilled as the winds rustled in 
the creeping shrubs that spraced the 
retreat of — Moore. On, L— ^1 
there's no use in talking, but I must be 
fine. I wonder I ever stood it at all, 
and I an Irishman too, and singing his 
songs since I was the height of my knee, 
• The Veiled Prophet,* • Azim ;' • She is 
far from the Land ;' ' Those Evening 
Bells.' But the door opened, and a 
young woman appeared. * Is Mr. Moore 
at home?' 'I'll see, sir; what name 
shall I say, sup?' Well, not to be too 
particular, we were shown up stairs, 
where we found the nighting^e in his 
cage ; in honester language, and more 
to the purpose, we founa our hero in 
his study, a table before him, covered 
with books and papers ; a drawer, half- 

r, and stuffed with letters ; a piano, 
open, at a little distance; and the 
thief himself, a little man, but full of 
spuit, with eyes, hands, feet, and fVame 
for ever in motion, looking as if it would 
he a feat for him to sit for three minutes 
quiet m his chair. I am no great ob- 
server of proportions ; but he seemed 
to me to oe a neat-made little fellow, 
tiffily battoned up, young as fifteen hi 

heart, though with hair that reminded 
me of the ' Alps in the sunset ;' not 
handsome, perhaps, but something in 
the whole cut of nim that pleased me ; 
finished as an actor, but without an 
actor's affectation ; easy as a gentleman, 
but without some gentlemen's formality ; 
in a word, as people say when they find 
their brains begin to run aground, at the 
fag-end of a magnificent period, we 
found him an hospitable, warm-hearted. 
Irishman — as pleasant as could be him- 
self, and disposed to make others so. 
And is this enough? And need I tell 
you that the da;^ was spent delightfullv, 
chiefly in listening to his innumerable 
jests, and admirable stories, and beau- 
tiful similes — beautiful and original as 
those he throws into his songs and anec- 
dotes, that would make the Danes laugh? 
And how we did all we could, I believe, 
to get him to stand for Limerick ; and 
how we called again the day after, and 
walked with him about his little garden ; 
and how he told us he always wrote 
walking ; and how we came in again and 
took luncheon; and how I was near 
forgetting it was Friday, (which, you 
know, I am rather apt to do in pleasant 
company) ; and how he walked with us 
throueh the fields, and wished us a 
* good-bye,* and left us to do as well as 
we could without him." 

We have next a tour in the High- 
lands of Scotland, chronicled in the 
same light and cheerful style ; on his 
return Arom which, Mr. Griffin an- 
nounced to his family what had been 
long silently working in his own breast, 
his resolution to embrace monastio 
TOWS. On this event of his life we do 
not want to enlarge ; it will, of coarse, 
be viewed in different lights by differ- 
ent individuals. He seems to have 
been moved to it by various considera- 
tions; hb sbter's death had cast a 
^loom over his sonl, which never, even 
m his lightest moods, wholly passed 
off— and he deemed that, in utter se- 
dnsion firom the world, that peace 
would be found which he had hitherto 
sought in vain in busier struggles. 
The example of a female relative who 
became a Sister of Charity, no doubt 
weighed with him also. As a prepa- 
ratory step, he destroyed a trunk full 
of unpublished manuscripts, divided 
his few ffoods amongst his brothers, 
and on the 8th of September, 1838, 
was admitted into a Dublin monastery 
under the name of Brother Joseph* 
He removed to Cork in the summer of 
the following year, where, in another 

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Lift <^ Ctrali Gr^. 


twelve months^ bU recluse life was 
terminated by an attack of typbus 
fever. He died on tbe evening of 
Friday, tbe 12tb of June, 1840, and 
was buried in the cemetery of tbe 
Nortb Monastery. A plain head-stone 
marks tbe place of bis sleeping. 

We have thus run over these pleas- 
ing memoirs, which are written with 
much feeling, and display in their 
arrangement considerable taste and 
judgment. After all, a brother is, 
perhaps, tbe very best biographer a 
man can have. A son is too far removed 
from one, as well in years as in posi- 
tion, rightly to form bis judgment, at 
least contemporaneously; white a stran- 
ger has to depend for his knowledge 
almost wholly on hearsay, and we know 
how easily facts are distorted from the 
omission of a single feature, material, 
though minute, but our own familiar 
friend, a brother, he is the one to 
understand us rightly, and reflect our 
image clearly and entire. We con- 
gratulate Dr. Griffin on the accom- 
plishment of his love labour, which 
has given us so much pleasure as to 
make us hope it is not our last time of 
meeting him. We would, however, 
point out to him the exceedingly care- 
less way in which the nress has been 
corrected, which his residence in Lime- 
rick cannot excuse — since, attached to 
every London printing establishment^ 
there are always efficient readers. The 
book teems with errata, and the punc- 
tuation is frequently very incorrect. 
We remember an "office" anecdote, 
where picked up we cannot say, which 
is, perhaps, apropos: — " Harry,** said 
one compositor to another, "here is 
a big bit of copy, and not a comma 
from head to tail in it!** "Never 

mind," was th« oool rejoinder, ^tbrow 
in a few here and there.** We shrewdly 
fuspect tbe good Leecb writes without 
punctuating, and tbe compositors bav. 
mg done it for him, have " thrown m** 
a few points here and there, that mieht 
be better " thrown out" again. The 
misprints are far too numerous for a 
small volume of under nve huDdred 

A word of farewell about Gerald 
Griffin. His character was a blending, 
not uncommon, we believe, of strengUi 
and weakness — energy and sensibility— 
humility and pride — gloom and ligfat- 
beartedness. Some one says, it is the 
brightest sunshine which creates the 
deepest shadow ; and It seems to have 
been so with him. But let us speak 
reverentially of the departed. He 
died young — yet what of that? So 
do the great proportion of all oor 
men of genius— so did tbe brighteet 
spirits it has been our fortune to know 
during our wierd world-jouroey* 
They bad too little day. He died 
early ; and though his works rather 
show us what he could do, than satisfy 
us with what he actually efFected-* 
rather lead us towards expectation 
than contentment — yet, we feel he hai 
given us sufficient for remembrance. 
The author of the Collegians must 
live — and as an able delineator of our 
national feelings— as an expounder of 
that subtlest of problems, the Irish 
heart — he cannot be forgotten; bat 
with Carleton, and Banim, and Bliss 
Edge worth, and one or two more, he 
will take his place in our Irbh firma- 
ment, and form a portion of that 
galaxy to which we are wont to look 
with wonder and pride. 

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19440 ^49 ^M^Jirm the German Oa^.^^ifih Jhi^ 17) 


HoKneiM U fit %ox}f. 


There blooms a beautiful Flower ; it blooms in a far-off land ; 
Its Hfe has a mystic meaning, for few to understand. 
Its leaves illumine the valley, its odour scents the wood ; 
And if evil men come near it they grow for the moment good. 

When the winds are tranced in slumber the rays of this luminous Flower 
Shed glory more than earthly o'er lake and hill and bower ; 
The hut, the hall, the palace, yea, EUfrth's forsakenest sod. 
Shine out in the wondrous lustre that fills the Heaven of God. 

Three kings came once to a hostel, wherein lay the Flower so rare : 
A star shone over its roof, and they knelt adoring there. 
Whenever thou seest a diunsel whose voung eyes dazzle and win, 
0, pray that her heart may cherish this Flower of Flowers within ! 

€h Uttttt o( tit Seatr. 


Mother dear, thy happy heart is weetless of mv dolour. 
Why a wedding-robe for me, and why its purple colour ? 
This jproud purple shall show paler in the daydawn early^ 
All night long my tears thereon shall fall so fast and pearly ! 

But if Morning*s golden sun arise and find me sleepine. 
If the robe remain unblanched, for all my weary weeping, 
Carl shall come to aid me from his bed below the billow. 
And his locks shall steep afresh my purple and my pillow. 

For he lies where gentle waters watch as fHends above him ; 
And when these shall whisper him that she who vowed to love him 
Trembles lest the jealous heart that in his youth he gave her 
Now forsake her bosom, he will rise and come to save her. 

Mother dear, I go to church — ^but thence into a far land. 
Give my bridegroom only this funereal cypress garland. 
Ail that he shall find will be a maiden's corpse to-morrow 
Stretched before the altar where the widows kneel in sorrow. 


The Future is Man's immemorial hymn : 
In vain runs the Present a-wasting ; 

To a golden goal in the distance dim 
In life, in death, he is hasting. 

The world grows old, and young, and old. 

But the ancient story still bears to ))e told. 

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173 SifOjf LeaJkUfrom ihe German OaJu^Piftk DrifL [Feb. 

Hope smiles on the Bojr from the hour of his hirth ; 

To the Youth it gives bliss without limit ; 
It gleams for Old Age as a star on earth. 

And the darkness of Death cannot dim it« 
Its rays will gild even fathomless gloom* 
When the Pilgrim of Life lies down in the tomb. 

Never deem it a Shibboleth phrase of the crowd. 

Never call it the dream of a rhymer ; 
The instinct of Nature proclaims it aloud — 

We are destined for something sublimer. 
This truth, which the Witness within reveals. 
The purest worshipper deepliest feels. 

Mature mote tjMn itltntt. 


I have a thousand thousand lays. 

Compact of myriad myriad words. 
And so can sing a million ways. 

Can play at pleasure on the chords 
Of tuned harp or heart ; 

Yet is there one sweet song 

For which in vain I pine and long ; 
I cannot reach that song, with all my minstrel-art. 

A shepherd sits within a dell, 

O'er-canopied from rain and heat ; J 

A shallow but pellucid well 

Doth ever bubble at hb feet. 
His pipe is but a leaf. 

Yet there, above that stream. 

He plavs and plays, as in a dream. 
One air that steals away the senses like a thief* 

A simple air it seems in truth. 

And who begins will end it soon ; 
Yet, when that hidden shepherd-youth 

So pours it in the ear of Noon, 
Tears flow from those anear. 

All songs of yours and mine ' 

Condensed in one were less divine 
Than that sweet air to sing, that sweets sweet air to hear I 

Twas yestemoon he played it last ; 

The hummings of a hundred bees 
Were in mme ears, yet, as I passed, 

I heard him through the myrtle trees* 
Stretched all along he lay, 

'^d foliage half decayed. 

His lambs were feeding while he phyed. 
And sleepily wore on the stilly Summer day. 

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18440 '^ffy LeaJhUjrom the German Oah— Fifth Drifi. 173 


Forward! Onward !— far and forth I 
An earthquake shout upwakes the North. 
Forward ! 

Prussia hears that shout so proud. 
She hearsj and echoes it aloud. 
Forward I 

Ancient Austria ! Nurse of Mind ! 
Suhlime land, lag not thou behind ! 
Forward I 

Warriors of the Saxon's land. 
Arouse! arise impress hand in hand 
Forward ! 

Swabia, Brunswick, Pomeraine ! — 
Wild Yagers from the Meuse and Maine ! 
Forward ! 

Holland 1— thou hast heard the word. 
Up I Thou too hast a soul and sword ! 
Forward ! 

Switzerland, — thou Ever-free I 
Lorraine, Alsatia, Burgundy ! 
Forward ! 

Albion ! Spain ! A common cause 

Is jours — your liberties and laws I 

Forward I 

Onward ! Forward ! — each and all ! 
Hark, hark to Freedom's thundercall ! 
Forward ! 

Forward! Onward I— far and forth ! 
And prove what gallant hearts are worth I 


Where are they, the Beloved, 

The Gladsome, all? 
Where are they, the Beloved, 

The Gladsome, all? 

They lef^ the festal hearth and hall. 
Th^ pine afar from us in alien climes. 
Vol. XXIII.— No. 134. n 

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174 . Stra^ LeaJUufirm the Ger$nan Oak^^^J^ifth Dr^. [Fib. 

Oh, who shall bring them back to us once more ? 

Who shall restore 
Life's fairy floral times ? 

Life's fairy floral times ? 

Where are they, the Beloved, 

The Gallant, all ? 
Where are they, the Beloved, 

The Gallant, all ? 

At Freedom's thrilling clarion-call 
They went forth in the pride of Youthhood's powers. 

Oh, who shall give them back to us once more ? 

Who shall restore 
Long-buried hearts and hours ? 

Long-buried hearts and hours ? 

Where are they, the Beloved, 

The Gifted, all ? 
Where are they, the Belov^d> 

The Gifted, all ? 

They would not yield their souls the thrall 
Of gold, or sell the glory of their lays. 

Oh, who shall give them back to*u8 once more ? 

Who shall restore 
The bright young songful days ? 

The bright young songful days ? 

God only can restore U6 

The lost ones all. 
But God He will restore us 

The lost ones all 1 

What, though the Future's shadows flill 
Dark o'er their fate, seen darker through our tears, 

Our God will give them back to us once more— 

He can restore 
The vanished golden years ! 

The vanished golden years ! 

Ciie fSHniixtVi iHotjfterlanTf. 


Where lies the minstrel's Motherland ? 

Where Love is faith and Friendship duty. 
Where Valour wins its meed from Beauty, 
Where Man makes Truth, not Gold, his booty. 

And Freedom bids the soul expand — 

There lay my Motherland I 

Where Man makes Truth, not Gold, his boot^i 

There wa$ my Motherland I 

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1844.] Stray Leaflets from the German Oak.— Fifth Drift. 175 

How fares the minstrers Motherland ? 

The land of oaks and sunlit waters 

Is dark with woe> is red with siauffhters ; 

Her bravest sons^ her fairest daughters, 
Are dead, — or live, proscribed and banned-^ 
So fares mj Motherland I 

The land of oaks and sunlit waters. 
My cherished Motherland I 

Why weeps the minstrel's Motherland ? 

To see her sons, while tyrants trample 

Her yellow Aelds and vineyards ample. 

So coldly view the briffht example 
Long shown them by a faithful band — 
For this weeps Motherland I 

Because thev slight that high example 
Weeps thus my Motherland I 

What wants the minstreVs Motherland ? 

To fire the Cold and rouse the Dreaming, 

And see their German broadswords gleaming 

And spy their German standard streaming. 
Who spurn the Despot's haught command. 
This wants my Motherland ! 

To fire the Cold and rouse the Dreaming, 
This wants my Motherland 1 

Whom calls the minstrers Motherland? 

Her saints and gods of ancient ages. 

Her Great and Bold, her bards and sages. 

To bless the war fair Freedom wages. 
And speed her torch from hand to hand — 
These calls my Motherland ! 

Her Great and Bold, her bards and sages. 
These calls my Motherland ! 

And hopes then still the minstrcFs Land ? 

Yes ! Prostrate in her deep dejection, 

She still dares hope swift resurrection I 

She hopes in Heaven and His protection 
Who can redeem from Slavery*8 brand — 
This hopes my Motherland 1 

She hopes in God and God's protection. 
My suffering Motherland I 

IBuraiiti oC SSlontren. 


Tow Vda the lofty walls of Balbi lo ! Durand of Blonden hies : 
Thousand songs are in his bosom ; Love and Pleasure light his eyes. 
There, he dreams, his own true maiden, beauteous as the evening-star. 
Leaning o'er her turret-lattice, waits to hear her knight's guitar. 

In the Hndenshaded courtyard soon Durand begins his lay. 

But his eyes glance vainly upwards ; there they meet no answering ray. 

Flowers are blooining in the lattice, rich of odour, fair to see. 

But the furest fiower of any. Lady Blanca, where is she ? 

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176 Stray Leaflets from the German Oak.— Fifth Drift. [Feb. 

Ah I while yet he chants the ditty draws a mourner near, and speaks— 
*' She is de&d, is dead for ever, whom Durand of Blonden seeks !" 
And the knight replies not, breathes not : darkness gathers round his brain : 
He is dead, is dead for ever ; and the mourners weep the twain. 

In the darkened castle-chapel burn a many tapers bright : 
There the lifeless maiden lies, with whitest wreaths and ribands dight. 
There . . . But lo ! a mighty marvel ! She hath oped her eyes of blue ! 
All are lost in joy and wonder ! Lady Blanca lives anew ! 

Dreams and visions flit before her, as she asks of those anear, 
" Heard I not my lover singing ? Is Durand of Blonden here ?'* 
Yes, O Lady, thou hast heard him ; he' has died for thy dear sake ! 
He could wake his tranced mbtress : him shall none for ever wake ! 

He is in a realm of glory, but as vet he weets not where ; 
He but seeks the Lady Blanca : dwells she not aLready there ? 
Till be finds her must he wander to and fro, as one bereaven. 
Ever calling, '^ Blanca I Blanca V* through the desert halls of Heaven. 


The poet layeth a wager 
of a fourpennj.plece that 
he will concoct an Intenser 
poem on Schnappilhan any 
other garreiteer extant. 

I'm rather slow at extravaganzas^ 

And what your poets call thunderclaps ; 
I'll therefore spm you some sober stanzas 

Concerning nothing at all but Schnapps. 
And though my wisdom, like Sancho Panza's, 

Consists entirely of bits and scraps, 
rU bet you fourpence that no man plims as 

Intense a poem as I on Schnapps. 

He panegyrifdh Schnapps* 
and quoteth a pronoun 
ft-om Qutotuf HoraUiu 

Schnapps is, you know, the genteelest liquid 

That any tapster in Potsdam taps ; 
When you've tobacco, and chew a thick quid, 

YouVe still to grin for your glass or Schnapps. 
You then wax funny, and show your slick wit. 

And smash to smithers with kicks and slaps] . 
Whatever*s next you — in Latin qmcquid — 

For I quote Horace when laudmg Schnapps. 

He doKribeth himself, 
nathless, n being a most 
moderate Schnapper, ex. 
oepting when he h^ipeneth 
to stagger Into bad com. 

Hagnus hiatus, higubra 

I've but one pocket for quids and coppers. 

Which last moreover are mostly raps. 
Yet, 'midst my ha'pence and pipes and stoppers 

I still find room for a flask of Schnapps. 
My daily quantum is twenty croppers. 

Or ten half-naggins • — but, when with chaps 
Who, though good Schnappers, are no slipsloppers^ 

I help to empty a keg of Schnapps. 

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1844.] Stray Leaflets from the German Oak.— Fifth Drift. 177 


tb2i£Slt^.itSjS: Being fifty, sixty, or therebetwixt, I 

ini for binueir a wtAj Guess many midnight? can t now elapse 

ttfiHom'liellS?* Before the hour comes m which my fixt eye 

Must look its last upon Earth and Schnapps, 
ril kick the pail, too, in some dark pigstye. 

Imbibing hogwash, or whey perhaps^ 
Which, taken sep'rate, or even mixt, I 

Don't think superior at all to Schnapps ! 

Cie Comint tfbent. 

Curtain the lamp, and bury the bowl— 

The ban is on drinking ! 
Reason shall reign the queen of the soul 

When the spirits are sinking. 
Chained lies the demon that smote with blight 

Men's morals and laurels ; 
So, hail to Health, and a long Good-night 

To old wine and new quarrels I 

Nights shall descend, and no taverns ring 

To the roar of our revels ; 
Mornings shall dawn, but none of them bring 

White lips and blue devils. 
Riot and Frenzy sleep with Remorse 

In the obsolete potion. 
And Mind grows calm as a ship on her course 

O'er the level of Ocean. 

So should it be ! — for Man's world of romance 

Is fast disappearing. 
And shadows of Changes are seen in advance. 

Whose epochs are nearing ; 
And days are at hand when the Best will require 

All means of salvation. 
And the souls of men shall be tried in the fire 

Of the Final Probation. 

And the Witling no longer or sneers or smiles ; 

And the Worldling dissembles ; 
And the blankminded Sceptic feels anxious at whiles^ 

And wonders, and trembles ; 
And fear and defiance are blent in the jest 

Of the blind Self-deceiver ; 
And infinite hope is bom in the breast 

Of the childlike Believer. 

Darken the lamp, then, and bury the bowl. 

Ye FaithfuUest-hearted! 
And, as your swift years hasten on to the goal 

Whither worlds have departed, 
Spend strength, sinew, soul, on your toil to atone 

For past idlesse and errors ; 
So best shall ye bear to encounter alone 

Cilt tfbetlt and its terrors. 

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1 78 Strm^ Leaflets ftim ike German Oak^Fifth Drift. [tA. 


And how is Ring Ringane's dM^ter named ? 

Young Lola, fair Lola ! — 
And what does jouns Lola do all the long day ? 
She dares not spin» sne would feel ashamed. — 

She fishes and bunts, they say. 
Ah ! were I a gold-spurred oflBcer, 
To fish and to hunt all day with her I 

Be still, my heart 1 

I passed King Ringang's palace-walls. 

And Lola, young Lola, 
Was listing a song from her yellow-haired page. 
The melody rang through the marble halls 

Like a nightingale's lay in a cage. 
Ah ! were I the yellow-haired son of a kine. 
Who knows but young Lola might bid me sing ? 

Be still, my heart! 

To-day they rested under an oak. 

The page and young Lola. 
Now, kiss me, do kiss my mouth, if you dare 1 
You daren't, you shan't ! — So Lola spoke. 

The boy did but blush and stare. 
At last he kissed her, but half in a firight. 
And Lola laughed loud, as well she might. 

Be still, my heart I 

What, then? They rode home in innocent joy. 

The page and young Lola. 
And were you to-morrow an emperor's bride, 
I care not, fair Lola ! — thus whispered the boy ;- 

I am happy, whatever betide. 
O, hear it, ye woods, from north to south. 
This day I have kissed young Lola's monUi ! — 

Be still, my heart ! 


Von Blue-Beard was a mighty stylish man ; 
He lived much like a Tartar Khan ; 
His taste in mutton-chops and wine 
Was quoted as particularly fine. 

Von Blue- Beard had a rather killing air. 
Square teeth, hook nose, short nails, long hair ; 
He stood upon his pins just six feet two ; 
His boots were black ; his beard was blue. 

Von Bine- Beard nursed a loving disposition ; 
He likewise was an All-sides politician. 
Quoth he, '* I am a Whig elsewhere. 
But am-a-tory with the Fair !" 

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1944.] Sit4if leafiUifram th^ Gtrmm Qak.^Fi^ fir^ 1 79 

The Fair, in turn, pronounced Von Blue-B. 

To be a jewel (saj a rubj. 

For rbyme*8 sake,) of a man, and sent him sundry starry 

Hearts-darts-and-^ejs, as hints for him to marry. 

Accordingly, he " took the initi-ative," 
And ^ye his hand — an awful Pative 
Case m the Grammar of Man's life — 
To Barbara, who became his wife. 

Great was the glee, for none could harbouv a 
Feeling of envy towards the gentle BarbiMra^ 
She bore her blushing honours much too meekly ;— 
But, g^od lack ! — in one week (for she was weakly 

In constitution) much to men*s astonishment. 
She died. Her death was " an admonishment,*' 

The ladies all declared, ^' to B B., 

To marry some one healthier." So, he married Pheebe. 

Phosbe was healthier, and, what's more, was wealthier | 
But vain were health and wealth ; Death stole still stealthier 
On Phoebe, who, within a peri-od 
Of six days, also died ; which some thought very odd. 

Howerer, wives tcill ** hoppe the twigge" — albeit 

Some husbands doubt the net (and would be glad to see it) 

And so. Yon Blue- Beard, having tarried 

A reasonable time, (three weeks,) again got married. 

But, not to bore you by prolixity. 

Of twenty wives (and in a big city 

Like Prague, though Misses may be wived. 

Wives are not missed, howe'er short-Uved 

Not one remained in twelve months* time. 
They died — all died — but how, my rhyme 
Saitb not. The truth will doubtless he Wed 
By 'nd by : meantime let's wait on B.-Beard. 

His ** hocussing" so large a lot of spouses 
(Sendinff them, namely, to those Narrow Houses 
Where folks eet Poaro-and- Lodging, and don't pay for it,) 
Had rendered him a most prodigious favorite 

With maids and widows ; why, I leave 
My female readers to conceive : 
I don't, myselfl well understand the mystery. 
But state the tsuct, as it occurs in History. 

'Twas, therefore, now a somewhat harder matter 
To please him. O, young women ! when you flatter 
Your lovers, don't forget you are planting barriers 
Right in the way of their becoming mamers 1 

However, Von was a ^^ood-natured slob. 
And so, in course of time, the job 
Again came on — the job, that is, of wedlock ; 
But now I have got him at a dead-look : 

And why? Why, Miss, I'll tell you why : 
Because his mother chose to die. 
And not his wifcj you understand, 
An4stke OiisnftQther) died in Sohwi^benUnd i 

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180 • Stray^ LeafieUfrom the German Oak.— Fifth Drift. [FA. 

And> as she died immensely rich* Von Blue-B. 
Was not, you know, quite such a booby 
As to neglect (which few do in 
Our age) securing every sixpence of the tin. 

So, though 'twas only one day after marriage. 

He ordered out his travelling-carriage. 

And then said to his wife, ''Dear Emmy, my attorney^ 

Informs me I must undertake a journey. 

** However, 1*11 be back agidn instanter ;— 
Meanwhile you, if you like, may saunter 
About the house and through the garden. 
Of which I constitute you Warden. 

'* You'll find in every room, save one. 
Concerning which 1*11 speak anon. 
Knick-knacks from Paris, Dresden, Brummagem ; 
And you and Sister Ann may rummage *em. 

*' You'll find in all my rooms and cabinets 
Pearls, pictures, china, velvets, tabbinets, 
Books, clocks, lamps, urns, and such commodities, 
Sphynxes, and other puzzling oddities. 

*' One room there is, however— the Blue Chamber-^ 
Which is the Straw in all this Amber : 
But, Mum's the word on that score, Emily l— * 
Plague not your bruns about my simile ; 

" But mind and don't unlock the Blue 
Room-door at all ; for, if you do. 
Like Sultan Schahriar,* whom you've read of. 
My darling duck, I'll chop your head off ! 

" Here be the keys ; they're ticketted and labelled. 
That so you may be at a glance enabled 
To find the one you want : Good b'ye, sweet love !" 
He kissed her cheek, and off he drove. 

A charming time there now began * 

For Emily and her "Sister Ann," 
A lively girl, sixteen or thereabout. 
Whose mother knew that she was out. 

Mais, coupons court : a week flew by like winking. 
Said Emily then, " Dear Ann — I'm thinking 
One might — just — only he would be so furious !" 
*' WeU, now," said Ann, " it is quite curious I" 

** And so am I" returned her sister, 

" And so am I," said Ann, — and kissed her. 

'' But still I'm steady as a rock : 

Dear me 1 — how nice the key does fit the lock !'* 

^* Don't open it, dear Ann," entreated 

Her sister. ** Open it 1" repeated 

An echo. Frightened, both pushed in the door. 

And down the key dropped on the floor. 

* Vide the Introduction to The Thousand and One Nights., 

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^^^•] S^ay Leaflets fr<m the German Oak.— Fifth Drift. 181 

But, what a spectacle appalled their sight ! 
0, horrihle! — a row of corpses white 
Hongy with cut throats, along the wall^ 
Like dead calves in a hatcher's stall ! 

The murder now was out — or rather 

The murders : — here were •* facts" on which to father 

The mystery, how in one short year 

A score of wives could disappear t 

Of course the sisters nearly fainted — hut 

They didn't, quite : Ann, shuddering, shut 

The door ; when, hark ! helow, a thundering knock I 

" Oh ! lock the door I" gasped Emily,—*' lock !— lock !" 

** Oh, dear," cried Ann, " there's hlood upon the key I" 
" I can't help that," said Emily : " Give it me !" 
So, down hoth hurried, looking rather pale. 
And found Von Blue-Beard ringing for some ale. 

" Good morrow, duck I" he said ; — " my keys I 

I want them very hadly, if you please. 

Thank you : all's right. But stay, — what have we here ? 

What's all this blood for ? Eh, my dear? 

*' Speak, Madam I — how came blood on this key ?" 
IVhereon, as if she had been tippling whiskey. 
Poor Emily stammered, " 1 — 1 — all my — I — " 
« Ay, ay," said Von, ** 'tis all my eye I"* 

<' Well, Madam ! — please to trot up stairs — 
I give you just two nours to say your prayers. 
Come, come ; no ceremony ! — ^1 bar it — 
Ann I show your sister to the garret !" 

And up they went, poor Emily I — poor Ann I j 
Alas for both of them ! That dreadful man 
Will murder one and marry t'other I 
But soft ! — ^not so ! — they've got a brother. 

" And don't you recollect we heard him say," 
Said Ann, " that he'd be here at One to-day?" 
" I do," said Emily, " but that's nothing : Von 
And 1, you know, are not * at one !' " 

And then she groaned, I can't say whether 
At her bad luck, worse joke, or both together. 
" Come, dear 1" cried Ann ; *' Despair's a sin : Do 
Just let me call to some one from the window !" 

" 'Twere a high calling," smiled the wife, 

" But useless ;— my head's off, — I feel the knife ! 

And, what annoys me more than all, 

111 surely hang against that horrid wall !" 

" Hush I — there's a pedlar with a packass 

Below !" cried Ann. " Ho, down there 1—0, the jackass. 

He's gone I — I wish we had a ladder !" 

A wi^ which made poor Emily sadder. 

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1 82 S&ay LeaJUtifrom tk^ O^rwum Oak.-^F^ Drift. [Fob. 

^* *Ti8 fraitless^ Ann ; so come awaj P cried the.' 
« I won't !" cried Ann—** I think I see 
A waggon-driver and his waggon 
Stop opposite the Yellow Dragon 1** 

** Well I*' Emily sighed* <* if one most die» one must !** 
*' Stay !** Ann exclaimed^ — ** I see a cloud of dost 1 
A horseman, too ! — what*s coming now ? 
Huzza !— *ti8 Jemmy, I protest and vow V* 

Just then a voice was heard upon the stair** 

*< Come I I must settle this affair 1" 

A moment more, and Von was in the room : 

" Well, Ma*am I" he said, ** you know your doom ?" 

*« Too well !" wept Emily ; « never douht me I 

But, g^ve — oh, give me time to look about me 1 

Give me another hour ! — ^you won't regpret it" — 

" Ah I" grinned Von, "don't you wish that you may get it?" 

" Hold there, you murderous ruffian l" cried 
A deep indignant voice outside^ 
And, like a barrel, in burst Jemmy, 
How greatly to the joy of Ann and Emmy ! 

His *' toasting-fork*' was in his hand, \ 

His ** barkers" in his girdle ; and 

He looked, besides, terrifically savage. 

Like one who comes to rescue — I mean ravage. 

Humph t thought Von Blue-Beard, how events censpire 

A^nst one 1 AU the fat is in the fire ! 

'Tis ugly ! — I must cut and run ! — 

And forth he rushed, but whither, none - . 

Have ever dnce been able to make out. 
If still alive, he must be '*up the spout" 
Entirely. Fourscore mourning-horses 
Drew to the grave his twenty corses. 

As for his wife, or widow, if she lost 

A husband she .soon gained a host 

Of other kinsfolk,«-oou8ins» nephew^, nieoes. 

Who generously spent Voni dcdlar-pieoes. 

However, she's rich still— just forty-three-^ 
And quite the ton ; she drinks ^Esthetic Tea, 
And latterly thinks Blue a much less shockingj 
Colour, partieulavly in a Stocking. 

J. C. M. 

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An Scetuioitical LegUlaiwe* 




An article on the expediency of set- 
ting up an ecclesiastical legislature, 
which appeared in our December nom- 
her, has not given, we have some reason 
to believe, univeraal satisfaction. We 
were right, it is said, in arguing 
iffsinst the erection and establishment 
Ota tribunal, or a court, of which 
the constitution and character were 
not only unknown, but unformed : we 
were wrong in passing too cursorily 
from the question, whetiier it would 
be wise, at this time, to restore the 
houses of convocation to their ancient 
authority? We demur to the indict- 
ment ; confessing or admitting the omis- 
sion, but denying that it was culpable. 
We declined enterine into, or moving, 
a question on the suDJect of convoca- 
tions, because, in our quality of re- 
viewers, no such question came directly 
before us. Perhaps we thought, that 
the answer to such a question might be 
gathered from our response to one more 
general Perhaps we thought that, in 
the manifest indisposition of all parties 
to move the question, whether convoca- 
tions ought to be revived, apprehen- 
sion of an unfavourable answer could 
be discerned. It matters not. We 
are now satisfied that our late article, 
if mtended to be final and complete, 
is chargeable with deficiency, and, to 
the best of our abilities, we proceed 
to make the amende. 

The question respecting the expe- 
^ncy of erecting an ecclesiastical 
le^^ture becomes, as is evident, more 
definite and precise when limited to 
the case of the convocation ; — ^becomes 
also more manageable. Knowing 
somethii^ of the history of that estate 

when it was a legislature — acquainted 
also with the nature or elements of its 
constitution — we can compare it with 
the wants of the times m which we 
live, and judge of its aptitude to pro- 
vide for them. To come to a right 
judgment, or rather to have before 
our view the case on which a right 
judgment may be pronounced, it is 
necessary only that we thoroughly un- 
derstand the present condition of 
our church, ana appreciate at its just 
value the agency of those powers with 
which a restored convocation is to be 

It must be agreed, on all sides, that, 
in primitive tim^, the Christian church 
had in its councils, general, provincial, 
or national, a provision for the regu- 
lation of its spiritual afCairs, which 
miffht correctly be denominated an 
ecdesiastical legislature. In these 
councils the church catholic was long 
faithfully represented, and the rights 
of nations and people duly respected. 
But forms of freedom are often made 
instruments of oppression, and thus it 
fared in ecclesiastical synods : — at first, 
assemblies in which the wisdom and 
the will of the church were mani- 
fested and exerted ; afterwards, organs 
through which arbitrary power, re- 
presented in the person of a single 
individual, acquired absolute authority 
over all Christendom. In England 
this great change was much promoted 
by a contrivance, characterised by all 
the simplicity of genius. The arch- 
bishop of Canterbury, or some other 
native prelate, was induced to become 
a l^ate of the Pope,* and, thus emi- 
nent station, and the great influence 

* This is a page of ecclesiastical history which ought to be more leffibly written. 
The whole merit of. orig^ating the policy is not, perhaps, ascribable to Rome; 
bnt even the adoption of it demands no ordinary praise. The national pride of 
^laod appears to have taken offence at the intrusion of foreign legates, and, if 
Aomaa historians are to be credited, a protest was addressed against such a prac- 
tice to the see of Rome, from the king and the bishops of England. They claimed, 
it is said, in virtue of a privilege granted by Gregory to Austin, that the 
Archbishop of Canterbury for the time l>eing should hold the office of legate ; and 
ij^qmred that no foreigner should be sent in that capacity, unless at the express 
desire of the sovereign. The ancient privilege, if there were any such, does not 
Appear to have been respected ; but it may have been in compliance with the some- 

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An Ecclesiastical Legislaiwe. 


attendant on it* were engaged as auxi- 
liaries of the papacy. The legatine 
office* apparently no more than an 
honour* and an increase of power* in- 
troduced prelates of the English church 
into the great papal confederacy ; made 
them acquainted with interests* and 
sensible to distinctions belonging to 
their order* but not to be realised in 
their country — inspired them with am- 
bitions which could not be satbfied at 
home* and engaged them in practices 
of diplomacy* always prejudicial* often 
fatal* to the spirit in which the affairs 
of a great national establishment ought 
to be administered. It converted an 
English prelate into a functionary of 
Rome* enhancing his influence and au- 
thority over the body he governed* and 
enlisting all his advantages in the ser- 
vice of the master* a foreigner* whom 
be represented. From the time of 
the Norman conquest to the accession 
of Henry VIIL, the efforts of the 
Papacy were unremitting* through 
agencies thus artfully directed (the 
** bishop's oath" made every prelate a 
legate* in all but the power and dig- 
nity) to extinguish freedom in the 
British church* and to efface its na- 
tional characteristics. In many an 
instance daring aggressions were with- 
stood* but there was no successful re- 
sistance to the encroachments of the 
Spal power until it was made by 

It is not our purpose to enter into 
any details of the contest between 
pope and king* at the era of* or pre- 
ceding* the Reformation. One charac- 
teristic of the struggle it cannot be 
impertinent to notice* namely* the 
directness with which Henry aimed 
bis blows at the point in which Rome* 
although seemingly very strong* was 
most vulnerable, by virtue of an oath 
sworn at their consecration* bishops 

in the church of Rome became a spe* 
cies of police for their sovereign the 
pope* handed* as his vassals* apart from, 
and if need were* against* all estates 
and persons temporal. The prudence 
and decision with which Henry assailed 
this "monster grievance** were ad- 

*• On the nth of May,"* writes Bishop 
Burnett, '* (three days before the pro- 
rogation^ the king sent for the speaker 
of the House of Commons, and tdd 
him, ' that he found upon enauiry that aU 
the prelates, whom he had toohed on ai 
wholly his subjects, were but half subjects ; 
for, at their consecration they swore an 
oath quite contrary to the oath they swore 
to the crown ; so that it seemed they were 
the Pope's subjects rather than his : which 
he referred to their care, that such 
order might he taken in it, that the king 
might not be deluded.* Upon which, 
the two oaths that the clergy swore to 
the king and the pope were read in the 
House of Commons. ' 

The contradictions* Burnett con- 
tinues* were so manifest between these 
two engagements* that only the sudden 
prorogation of parliament* owing to 
the progress of the plague* prevented 
the issuing of a severe censure. A 
formal censure* however* was not ne- 
cessary. The monarch had appealed 
to the people of England, to judge 
between his claims and those of the 
pope. The question was not one of 
pure religion ; it was one of jurisdic- 
tion* national or foreign; and the 
king of England adopted the surest 
method of obtaining a just and useful 
decision upon it. The world* we are 
convinced* would affirm the judgment 
pronounced by England in the days of 
Henry VIIL* if it were at this day 
invited* by competent authority* to de- 
termine upon a similar appeal. f 

Henry's exertions in vindication of 

what peremptory will of a Norman line of British kings, that, occasionally, natives 
of England were invested with the leffatioe office. This may have sometimes galled 
the pride, and perhaps lessened the mfluence, of the archiepiscoual dignitaries ; a 
simple reader, when appointed le^te, takine precedence of the primate. The 
anomaly was at last corrected, and Rome had the oenefit of the reformation. Theo- 
bald, archbishop of Canterbury, according to Polidore Virgil, was appointed 
legate by Innocent II., and in his office was very serviceable to the cause of reli- 
gion. The dignity, he says, was afterwards conferred on all the archbishops, who 
were styled "Xregati nati." — Angl. Hist., Lib. 13, p. 209. 

* Hist, of the Reformation, Book ii. 

f We express this opinion, although its justice was disputed by one of the highest 
authorities of the age, the late M. Sismondi. In a conversation which wo once 
had the honour to share with that great man, the affair of the archbishop of Cologne 

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1844.] No. IL^ConvocaiioM. 185 

the royal anthoritj were successful, clergy, and authorising their proceed- 

The powers which had been usurped ings. Henceforth, convocations, as 

over the Church of England by the well as parliaments, were to meet in 

papacy became, to a considerable ex- virtue of a royal summons. The fol- 

tent, transferred to the crown : among lowing epitome from Mr. Lathbury's 

them, and certainly not the least con- History of the Convocations may not 

siderable, the right to determine whe- be unacceptable to the reader : — 
ther and when councils or convocations 

should be holden. William the Con- <* In the year 1533 a most important 
queror, jealous perhaps of ecclesiastical act, called the Act of Submission, was 
influence, had discontmued the practice passed into a law, by which the charac- 
ofprecedingtimea3nwhich"the bishops* ter of our Anglican convocation was 
and their clergy met in the same courts completely changed. It wiU be my bu. 
with the barons and commons." Henry smess m this chapter, to deUil the 
Vlll. found the assemblies .separate^ EtllL'theTor^^^^^^^^ 
and, suspicious of foreign mfluence, ^j^tion as it now exists, 
wrested to himself a privilege pre- «* Prior to this period, the archbishop 
viously exerted by ministers or vassals of each province could assemble his pro- 
of the pope, that of assembling the vincial synod at his pleasure, though at 

came under discussion ; we ventured to express a doubt, whether the interposition 
of the king of Prussia ought not to have been earlier than it was ; whether, in 
fact, it would not be wiser to prevent his subjects from enterinc; into such engage- 
ments towards the pope as those contracted in the bishop's oath, than to allow the 
formation of such engagements, and then interfere to prevent their being acted on. 
H. Sismondi said that he approved altogether of the king's forbearance. He had 
nothine, and should have nothing, to do with the religious professions of his sub- 
jects ; but if acts contrary to the laws of his kingdom were to be the result of such 
professions, he was called upon to interfere, because then his interference was 
designed to uphold the laws of his country, not to abridge the sacred rights of reli- 
eiions freedom. We were daring enough to rejoin, affirming that we regarded the 
bishop's oath not in the light of a religious profession, but as an oath of feudal 
obedience ; an oath by which a subject of the King of Prussia made himself a vassal 
of the pope ; an oath by which, regarding it in the least objectionable sense, the 
swearer incurred the inconveniences and evils of a divided allegiance. We thought 
a monarch or a state ou^ht to afford protection against such an engagement. In 
itself, we thought it a violation of law, an infringement upon the sovereign's rieht ; 
and we added, that if the kine of Prussia, or if the British senate, were to call the 
attention of reflecting men throughout Europe to the iniquity of such an oath, 
public opinion would be so decidedly pronounced, as to ensure] its being abolished 
or discontinued. M. Sismondi, we are bound to say, did not honour our views so 
far as to adopt them. On the continent, he said, especially in the German Slates, 
the effect would not equal our anticipations. Where a divided allegiance did not 
appear anomalous, was not even unusual, our argument would lose much of its 
strength. As to the effect likely to be produced upon the English mind, he did not 

* " Councils were held in 1077 and 1078 : but very little is known respecting their 
proceedings. But in the vear 1085 a most important change was effected by the 
Conqueror in the mode of holding ecclesiastical councils. To this time, the bishops, 
vrith their clergy, met in the same court with the barons and commons. Thus the 
bishop and sheriff sat in the same court, the one deciding in ecclesiastical, the other 
in civil matters. ' If the matter to be deliberated upon were purely spiritual, the 
bishops went apart by themselves, and debated upon it.' Mixed affairs were set- 
tled in mixed assemblies of clergy and laity ; but spiritual matters were discussed 
onlv b^f the clergr. Thus the 'Laws Ecclesiastical' of Athelstan were made by 
anUiority of the bishops ; while his other * Constitutions' were signed by all. Be- 
sides these mixed meetmgs, however, there were occasionally some assemblies, which 
were purely ecclesiastical convocations, or synods. The law by which William 
effected the change states, that the ancient canons respecting councils were not re- 
earded in England ; which is strong evidence that our ancestors did not submit to 
Rome until after the Conquest. Popery was an usurpation on our ancient govern- 
ment. From this time, therefore, ecclesiastical matters were decided in purely 
ecclesiastical assemblies." — Lathbury's History of the Convocation, pp. 64-o5. 

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An Ecdeiiaatieal Legislature. 


the same Ume the soTereign ooald sum- 
mon both proYinces by a royal writ. 
When, too, the convocation met at the 
command of the king, the archbishop 
could either dissolve them when the 
business of the crown was finished, or 
continue the svnod for other purposes 
by his own authority. The metropoli- 
tans, therefore, could assemble the 
clergy at pleasure. They bsul a right 
independent of the crown. Even when 
assembled for state purposes by the 
king's writ, the metropolitans could 
proceed to the consideration of matters 
ecclesiastical. It is therefore evident, 
that prior to the Act of Submission, 
there were two kinds of ecclesiastical 
councils — the one a synod for the affairs 
of the church, called by the archbishops ; 
the other a state convocation, summon- 
ed by royal writ. Such was the state 
of things prior to 1533; but since that 
period the convocation cannot assemble, 
even for church purposes, without the 
royal permission, nor, when assembled, 

{)roceed to business without a special 
icense from the sovereign. When met 
for the purpose of granting subsidies 
only, they were a state convocation ; but 
when they were permitted to proceed to 
other business, they became a council, or 
provincial synod, in the strict and proper 
sense ; so that, since the act in c[uestion, 
the convocation has been entirely de- 
pendent on the sovereigns, who have 
summoned it according to their necessi- 
ties, or when the circumstances of the 
church rendered it expedient. 

'* The submission of the clergy was 
couched in the following terms : — * We 
do offer and promise, in verba sacerdotii, 
here unto your highness, submitting 
ourselves most humbly to the same, that 
we will never from henceforth enact, 
put in force, promutge, or execute any 
Hew canons, or constitution provincial, 
or any new ordinance provincial, or sy- 
nodal, in our convocation or synod, in 
time coming, (which convocation is, 
always hath been, and must be assem- 
bled only by your high commandment or 
writ,) unless your highness, by your 
royal assent, shall license us to assem- 
ble our convocation, and to make, pro^ 
mulae, and execute such constitutions 
and ordinances as shall be made hi the 
same, and thereto give your royal assent 
and authority.* 

" This^brm had been dictated bv his 
inajestv ; and the celebrated act of the 
25th Henry V III. recites the submission 
of the clergy, and then enact« that they 
shall not he able to proceed with any 
convocational business without the per- 
mission of the sovereign. But it will 

be desirable to subjoin that portion of 
the act which relates to the oonvoea- 
tioa. It is an act to bind the clergy to 
the performance of the promise con- 
tained in their submission. The words 
of submission which are cited in the act 
need not be repeated : I give only the 
enactments of the parliament on that 

" * Be it, therefore, now enacted by 
authority of this preset parUament, 
according to the said submission and 
petition of the said clergy, that they nor 
any of them from henceforth shall pre- 
sume to attempt, allege, claim, or pat 
in use any constitutions, or ordinances 
provincial, or synodals, or any other 
canons ; nor shall enact, promulge, or 
execute any such canons, constitutions, 
or ordinance provincial, by whatever 
name or names they may be called in 
their convocations in time coming, which 
always shall be assembled by authority 
of the king's writ, unless the same 
clergy may have the king's most royal 
assent and license to make, promulgp, 
and execute such canons, constitutions, 
and ordinances provincial or synodal, 
upon pain of every one of the said clergy 
doing contrary to this act, and being 
thereof convict, to suffer imprisonment 
and make fine at the king's will.' 

** It was also enacted Uiat, on the pe- 
tition of the clergy, thirty-two persons 
should be appointed by the king to re- 
vise the canons and ordinances, and 
publish them, after the royal assent had 
been obtained, for the government of 
the church. Such a review, however, 
was never accomplished. By the same 
act, it was provided, that all canons 
and constitutions which were not re- 
pugnant to the laws and customs of the 
reiQm, nor injurious to the royal prero- 
gative, should continue in force until 
the said review should be effected. On 
the authority of this clause of the Act 
of Submission, the canons of the An- 
glican church obtain their force. 

•* Four points, therefore, are settled 
by the Act of Submission : — 

** Furst — That the convocation can 
only be assembled by the king's writ. 

** Secondly — That when assembled, 
it cannot proceed to make new canons 
without a royal license, which is quite 
a separate act from the permission to 

•* Thirdly — That havin^^ agreed upon 
canons, in conformity with the royal 
license, they cannot be published or take 
effect until confirmed by tlie sovereign. 

«* Fourthly—That even with the royal 
authority, no canon can be enacted 
against the laws and customs of th^ 
Iwid, or the king's prerogative.*** 

• History of the Convocation, pp. 111-115. 

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No. IL — QmnfecaUons. 


Howerer strietlj the power of the 
clergy to act or assemhle in convoca- 
tion was limited} there was one parti- 
cular in which they were very pro- 
perly left freey namely, in the privilege 
of self-taxation. The exercise of this 
hoDourable, though somewhat onerous 
privilege^ distinguished the convoca- 
tions of the British clergy, from piirely 
niritual assemhlies. It rendered also 
the summoning of convocations by the 
king, a matter of more frequency 
than it might have been, if there were 
Bo other reason for theur beinff assem- 
bled than the necessities of discipline 
and doctrine. While the church taxed 
itself, convocations were no less mani- 
festly expedient than parliaments. The 
mutual mterdependency of crown and 
legislature was equally discernible and 
operative in both instances, ecclesias- 
tical and civil. In the latter part of 
the seventeenth century the church 
parted with this important, although 
perhaps invidious, distinction, and con- 
sequences followed, such as might na- 
turally have been, and indeed were, 

*^ In the wear 1664, however, a most 
important change was effected with res- 
pect to the clergy and the convocation. 
Hitherto they had taxed themselves in 
their synod, their proceedings being 
tabsequently confirmed by parliament. 
It waSj therefore, necessary for the 
erown to assemble the svnod, in order 
to obtain the usual subsidies. Now, 
however, by an arrangement between 
Archbishop Sheldon and the Lord- 
CbaQcellor Hyde, the clergy silently 
waived the privilege of taxme them- 
seltes, and snbmitUd to be inoioded in 
the money bills of the House of Com- 
mons. It was arranged thdt their an- 
tletat priTileges should be preserved; 
iuid a eUmse was inserted to that effl^jt 
in the bill passed on this occasion : — 
* Provided alwavs^ that nothing herein 
eQn(;ahied shall be drawn into example 
to the pr^udice of the ancient rights 
Wonging unto the lords spiritual and 
temporal, or clergy of this realm.' This 
Set, frofaft which the clause is quoted, 
was called * An Act forgranting a Royal 
Aid tmto the King's Majestv ;' and it 
was the ffapst in which thb clergy were 
hMdnded. « Whether this great change,' 
sajB Keanet, * be moiiB to the interest 
or prejudice of the church and clergy 

in England, is not so easy to deter- 

** Since this period the convocation 
has not been often permitted to trans- 
act business. Were the clergv still 
to tax themselves, they must be allowed 
to^ assemble ; and when assembled, they 
might insist on gprievances before grant- 
ing subsidies ; and then the crown would 
be necessitated to permit them to take 
the affairs of the church into considera- 
tion. * Being in no condition,' Collier 
remarks, * to ffive subsidies and present 
to the crown, tis well if their convoca- 
tion meetings are not sometimes discon- 
tinued, if they do not sink in their insig- 
nificancy, lie by for want of a royal 
license, and grow less regarded ^hen 
their grievances are offered.' Collier's 
prediclion has been verified. 

** The Long Parliament was dissolved 
in 1678, and a new parliament and con- 
vocation were summoned the same year. 
Nothing, bowerer, of the slightest de- 
gree of importance was transacted in 
either province. A new convocation 
met in 1680, but no business was en- 
tered upon. This was the last convO' 
cation of the reign of Charles II."* 

It would appear that some years be- 
fore the agreement between tne Arch- 
bishop and Lord Clarendon, the pri- 
vilege then abandoned had been volun- 
tarily surrendered. A change in the 
mode of taxation, involving such a 
surrender, was made in the year 1652, 
the thirteenth year (in legal parlance) 
of the reign of Charles fi. 

** The clergy having continued to tax 
themselves in convocation, as aforesaid, 
these assemblies were regularly kept up 
till the act of the 13 Charles IL c. 4, 
was passed, when the clergy eave their 
last subsidy ; it being then Judged more 
advantageous to continue the taxing 
them by way of a land tax and noil tax, 
as it had been in the time of tne Long 
Parliament during the civil wars." — 
GUb. £xeh. 56.t 

It can scarcely be denied that the 
circumstances of the church at the 
time of the restoration, and the ca- 
lumnies circulated against its minis- 
ters, rendered the mamtenance of its 
rights and privileges a matter of ex- 
treme difficulty, and of much peril. 
Bishops and clergy, who had been for 
many years deprived of their revenues, 
and constrained to maintain them- 

■ IShdoty of the Convocftllon, p. 259. 
t Hook's tlk^irch IMctiottary-^Arllcle, «* 

' Convocation.' 

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An Ecclesiastical Legislature. 


selves by ** keeping schools,*' and, as 
they were styled, " such low conde- 
scensions,** were restored to their dig- 
nities and possessions, reinstated in 
their position as landlords and credi- 
tors, and re-invested with the autho- 
rity belonging to them in these rela- 
tions. It was natural and reasonable 
to hope that a very ffracious use should 
be made of this authority ; but tenants 
and debtors were not reasonably mo- 
derate in theur expectations. They 
magnified to themselves their own 
merits and necessities, and they were 
too full of themselves to make due 
allowance for the necessities of the 
church. Ecclesiastics, verging to the 
close of life, about to leave behind 
them families unprotected and unpro- 
vided, found, suddenly, that law, by 
restoring to them rights long with- 
held, enabled them to secure their 
widows or children from want. In 
some instances, men were restored 
whose views were more disinterested, 
who found their cathedrals dilapi- 
dated, their residences in ruins, and 
who could command the means, b^ sim- 
ply asserting their undoubted rights, 
to repair sacred edifices, so that they 
should be adapted to purposes of wor- 
ship; and to render residences for 
bishops or clergy habitable. In such 
circumstances it is not wonderful that 
the clergy were not so happy as to 
satisfy the expectations of the people 
at large, or to win the approval 
of those with whom they had long 
reckonings of a pecuniary nature to 
settle. The general moderation of the 
ecclesiastical body was overlooked, and 
public attention was fixed on a few 
instances of rigour or want of discrimi- 
nation. There were cases in which 
claims of right were so severely ex- 
acted, that they were productive of 
wrong — cases in which men, who had 
proved their loyalty and faith by suf- 
fering, appeared to be accounted of 
less esteem than those who had pro- 
fited by the public calamities. Reports 
of some few unhappy cases of this de- 
scription were industriously and acri- 
moniously circulated through society, 
and the church, in public estimation, 
took sore hurt irom them. At such 
a time, a wise and upright legislature 
and eovernment ought to have medi- 
ated between parties so painfully at 
issue, advising and enforcing mutual 
concession and forbearance* but, at 

th# same time, providing that all es- 
tates in the realm should yield their 
contributions to the general necesntj. 
To enforce the claims of ecclesiastics, 
in all instances, would be harsh ; to 
comply with the wishes of many of the 
laity would be gross wrong. In sudi 
a difficulty the state should think of 
the parties thus painfully at issue, and 
should be also mindful of itself — should 
remember that no one party can be per- 
manently benefited, unless the rights 
of all are respected ; and, if it were 
necessary that the rights of any should 
be abridged or postponed, the country 
at large should be called on to afford 
some species of compensation. In a 
word, tenants and debtors to the 
church should have been relieved, but 
the nation should bear its part of tiie 
burden. To throw all the sofibing 
upon ecclesiastics would be to do 
wrong, and to set a precedent for spo- 
liation. The state, however, did not 
interfere. Clerics and laics were left 
to adjust their differences — the church 
was left to defend itself affiunst calum- 
nious aspersions— and it is easily con- 
ceivable that, in such circumstances, 
fast friends of the pure religion estab- 
lished in these realms, might think its 
ministers released from a distinction 
which rather provoked aggression than 
attracted obedience and respect when 
they divested themselves of a privilege 
which would have caused a necessity 
for frequent convocations, and have 
g^ven them an invidious importance. 

The bishops and clergy had become 
reinstated in the good opinion of the 
English people, when, on the acces- 
sion of William and Mary, a convo- 
cation was summoned to determine 
upon matters of much delicacy and 
peril. The goodness of a merd/ul 
rrovidence was manifest in the pre- 
paredness of the church for that ar- 
duous trial. Episcopacy having been 
abolished in Scotland, it was proposed 
to dilute its spirit in Ennand, by 
making such changes in the ritoiu 
and liturgy of the church, as should 
recommend it to dissenters. This was 
the scheme for ** a compreheimon ;** 
a scheme first prepared by a royal 
commission, and then submitted for 
adoption to the houses of convocation. 
The scheme^ as it deserved, miscar- 
ried. It is matter of some surprise 
that it could ever have obtained the 
patronage of the names by which it 

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1844.] No. II. — Convocations. 189 

was accredited.^ Bat reflection will Bishop Burnett was one of those 

always temper such surprise, by re- by whom the abortive enterprbe had 

mindiDg us that to judge righteously been promoted— one who thought that 

of the conduct of actors in stirring the scheme ought to have been favonr- 

times and great events, we should be ably considered in convocation who 

able to sympathise with them, to feel thought the r^ection of it prejudicial 

the spirit of the age they lived in, and to the reputation of the clergy-^but 

to ass^ due force to the influences who was able, at the same time, to 

by which they were affected. discern good in the result he would 

* Ifr. Lathbury, in his succinct but lucid and comprehensive History of the 
Convocation, has given the following account of this memorable transaction :— 
** With the convention parliament, bv whom William and Mary were seated on the 
throne, the convocation did assemble. The second parliament, however, in the 
first year of their Majesties* reign, petitioned the throne to summon the convoci^ 
tion. Many there were, especiuly the dissenters, who wished to settle all mat- 
ters in parliament; but the House of Commons were of opinion that the convo- 
cation was the proper place for the consideration of ecclesiastical affairs. 

** Before, however, the convocation was convened, a preparatory step was 
taken — namely, the appointment of a commission under the j^reat seal to draw 
up and prepare matters for the consideration of the synod. On the 24tJi of May, 
1689, the ' Act for exempting their Majesties' Protestant subjects dissenting from 
the Church of England from the panalties of certain laws,* called the * Act 
of Toleration,' received the royal assent. Still, many dissenters wished for a com- 
orehensionvnth the church. A bill on. the subject had passed the House of 
Lords ; but on its reaching the Commons, they considered that the question was 
more suitable for a convocation. The Lords, therefore, concurred in an address 
to the throne to that effect. To prepare the way, the royal commission was issued, 
authorizing certain individuals to meet and prepare alterations in the liturgy 
and canons, and to consider other matters connected with the church. It was 
dated in September, 1689. 

'* The commissioners frequently met, but some of the members, who were 
named, absented themselves, especially Dr. Jane, regius professor of divinity in 
Oxford, on the ground that alterations were not required, and that the present 
was not the season for such discussions. The majority, however, proceeded in 
the work. The point of greatest difficulty was that of re-ordination ; but it was 
at last settled by the commissioners that the hypothetical form should be adopted 
hi the case of the dissenters as in the case of imcertain baptism, in these words : — 

* If thou art not already ordained, I ordain thee.' This would have satisfied 
many of the nonconformists. Burnett says, * We had before us all the books and 
papers that thev had at any time offered, setting forth their demands ; together 
with many advices and propositions which had been made at several times by 
most of the best and most learned of our divines, of which the late most learned 
Bishop of Worcester had a ^reat collection : so we prepared a scheme to be laid 
before the convocation, but did not think that we ourselves, much less that any 
other person, was any way limited or bound to comply with what we resolved to 

"Much information was communicated on this subject at a later period, in 
the speeches in the House of Lords on the trial of Sacheveral. Wake, then Bishop 
of Lmcoln, in replying to the doctor on the point of the comprehension, says, 

* He who first concerted the comprehension, was the late Archbishop Sancroft, to- 
wards the end of King James's reign, when we were in the height of our labours 
defending the church against Popery.' He adds, * The several parts of the scheme 
were, by the direction of the archbishop, committed to such divines as were 
thonirht most proper ; he took one part to himself, another was committed to 
Dr. Patrick ; the reviewing the liturgy and communion book was referred to a 
select number, two of whom are now on our bench, viz., the Archbbhop of York 
and Bishop of Ely, who will witness the truth of mv relation.' He further re- 
marks, 'Aj soon as their late majesties came to the throne, they openly espoused 
the d^ign ; a commission was issued under the great seal to a large number of 
bishops and other eminent divines, to meet and consider these matters.' 

*' The government, however, saw that there was no hope of success with any 
alterations in the lower house of convocation ; consequently, the subject was never 

Vol. XXIII.— No. 134, o 

Digitized by LjOOQ IC 

l90 An EcchiioMtical Legishtute* [Fd. 

have deprecated. His reflections ftre dosigniog to make a BchUm in the 

too valuable to be withheld from the church, whensoever they should be 

reader ;— turned out, or their places should be 

filled up by others. They saw It woidd 

not be easy to make a separation upoa 

** The ill reeeption that the clergy a private and personal account. Tney 

gare the king's message raised a great therefore wished to be Aimished with 

and just outcry against them : since all more specious pretences. And if we 

the promises made in King James's time had made alterations in the rubric, and 

were now so entirely forgot. other parts of common-prayer, thw 

^ ** But there was a very happy direc- would have pretended that the? still 

tion of the providence of Goa observed stuck to the ancient Church of Eng- 

Sn this matter. The Jacobite clergy, land, in opposition to those who were 

who were then under suspension, were altering it, and setting up new models. 

kitroduoed. Still a notice of the proposed changes is necessary, in order that Um 
▼lews of the government may be ascertained. They were the following : — 

** Chanting to be discontinued. 

*< Certain select psalms to be read on Sundays ; bat the daily eoorse not to bt 

** The omission of the apocryphal lessons, and of some from the Old Testament 

** A rubric on the usefulness of the sign of the cross in baptism. The use of it 
to be omitted altogether when desired. 

" The sacramental elements to be administered in pews, to those who might object 
to kneeling. 

" A mbrio declaring that Lent fasts consisted in extraordinary acts of devotioQ, 
not in distinction of meats ; and another to explain the meamng of the enber 

" The rubric enjoining the daily reading or hearing of common prayer on the 
clergy to be changed into an exhortation. 

''The Absolution to be read by deacons ; the word mhiister being snbstitnted 
for priest ; and the words * remission of sins' omitted as not very mtelligible. 

''The ' Gloria Patri* not to be repeated at the end of every psalm. 

"In the 'Te Deum,* the words 'only begotten Son* substituted for 'thine 
honourable, true, and only Son.' 

" The 128th Psalm to be substituted for the ' Benedioite;' and other psalms for 
the ' Benedictus' and ' Nunc Dimitis.' 

" The versioles after the Lord's Prayer to be read kneeling; and after the words 
* Give peace, &c.,' an answer promissory, on the part of the people, of keeping God's 
law, the old response being supposed by the oonimissioners to savour too strong of 
a view of predestination. 

" All titles of the king and queen to be omitted, and the word ' sovereign* only 

" In the prayer for the kin^, the clause, ' Grant that he may Tanquish, Ac, 
diamred into ' Prosper all his nghteous undertakings against thy enemies.' 

'* The words, ' who worketh great marvels,' chang^ into ' who alone art the 
author of all good eifts ;' and the words, ' the Holy Spurit of thy grace, substi- 
tnted for ' the healthM spurit of thy grace.' The reason assigned for the lattsr 
was this, that the word healthful was obsolete. 

"The prayer, 'O God, whose nature and property,' to be onutted, as fiillof 
atrange and impertinent expressions. 

" The ooUeots to be revised by the Bishop of Chichester. 

" If a minister refused the surplice, and the people desired it, the bish<^ to be 
at liberty to appomt another, provided the living would bear it. 

" Sponsors to be disused, and children to be presented in the name of their parents, 
if desired. 

" A mbric to declare, that the curses in the Athanasian creed are confined to 
those who deny the substance of the Christian religion. ^ 

" Certain alterations to be made in the Litany, the Commnnion Serrioe, and 
the Canons. 

" Many other verbal alterations were suggested, and several things ware left 
to the care of Tennison. Such were the alterations proposed by the oommif- 
sioners. Churchmen in the present day will be surprised at some of thenit and in 
my opinion there are but few clergymen who are not thankful that the tdieme 
was {rvmtnX9d:*^ai$t9ryofthe Unvoco^teis pp. a6£^-d09. 

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No. II. — Convocations. 



And, M I do flrmly UHeve that there is 
a wise providence that watches upon 
human affairs and directs them, chiefly 
those that relate to religion, so I liave 
with great pleasure observed this, in 
many instances relating to the revolu- 
tion. And upon this occasion I could 
not but see, that the Jacobites among 
OS, who wished and hoped that we 
should have made those alterations 
which they reckoned would have been 
of great advantage for serving their 
ends, were the instruments of raising 
such a clamour against them, as prevent- 
ed their being made. For by all the 
judgments we could afterwards make, 
if we had carried a majority in the con- 
vocation for alterations, they would 
have done us niore hurt than good."* 

"Would have done us more hurt 
than good!** This is a very instruc- 
tive, as it is a yery candid, acknow- 
ledgment. An unprejudiced person, 
who observes and reflects, can hardly 
reftd it without noticing its perti- 
nencv to the tinies we live in* It is 
not, however, complete. More might 
have been looked for from a writer of 
fiuhop Burnett's sagacity. He saw 
clearly enoueh that the scheme he ad- 
vocated would have been productive of 
schism ; to us it seems equally clear 
that it would not have served the pur- 
pose for which it was designed, that 
of a general ''comprehension." The 
chaises proposed by the royal com- 
nussioners, although of magnitude 
eoough to convert the existii^ disu- 
ikion between the clergy into perma- 
nent division, would not have recon- 
ciled dissentm to the church establish- 
njent There does not appear to have 
been any foundation for the hope of 
SQch a result. The commissioners, it 
utrue, "had before them," as Burnett 
^^rites, "all the exceptions, that either 
the Puritans before the war, or the non- 
conformists since the restoration, had 
"wwfc to any part of the church *er- 
xieeT but it does not follow that they 
had before them a statement of all 
the objections which such persons felt, 
^ oy which they were most strongly 
^unced. Still less does it appear 
u^t they had before them a statement 
of the grounds on which the dissen- 
ters prinferred their sevsrid sects or 
•ommimions before the churoh ftrom 

which they were separated. And yet 
all these matters ouffht to have "been 
before" learned and thoughtful men 
engaged in deliberations upon a scheme 
of "comprehension." To propose or 
construct a scheme in which due provi- 
sion was not made for them, belonged 
rather to the empirical practices of 
bold projectors, than to the well-or- 
dered measures of prudent men, who 
would carefully consider their subject, 
under all its aspects, before commit- 
ting themselves to any decided course 
of action. 

This ill-advised scheme having been 
defeated, the lower house of convoca- 
tion, to which its failure was ascribe- 
able, became bolder and more aspiring. 
The government took ahirm, (not un- 
reasonably, considering its own inse- 
curity, and the spirit of the non-juring 
party,) and for some time withh^ 
the licence which was necessary to au- 
thorise the acts of the assembled 
clergy. " They were kept," says Bur- 
nett, "from doing mischief by proroga- 
tion for a course of ten years, "-f During 
the interval, however, much mischief 
was done through the press. The 
advocates for free convocations be- 
came empassioned in the performance 
of their task, and clwrned not only 
the rights established by exercise for 
centuries, but the right, which had 
never been claimed sinoe the Refor«- 
mation, of enacting canons without 
royal authority or licence. The ex- 
tremities to which controversy was car* 
ried on at both sides during the years 
in which the convocation was only a 
form, showed their effects when it 
was permitted to act. The assertion 
on the part of the lower house, of its 
right to disregard prorogation by the 
archbishop, and to continue its sessions 
after the higher assembly had ad<> 
journed — the censure passed upon 
Burnett's Exposition of theThirty-nine 
Articles— .and various other incidents 
and circumstances — gave proof that a 
spirit of faction had taken the place of 
a spirit of deliberation, and gave 
warning of the danger that may ao« 
erue trom ealling into aotivity, ta 
times of excitement or disorder, m 
body long debarred from the exercise 
of power, and which had committed 

• Burnett's Bastory of his own Times, vol, iv. p. « 
T i^thbury's History of the Convocation, p, 87a 

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An Ecclesiastical Legislatvre. 


itself by the avowal of extravagant 
pretensions, at a time when the since- 
rity of high professions could not be 
rendered suspicious by poverty of per- 

It would be unprofitable to dwell 
upon the history of the convocations 
from this time to their virtual extinc- 
tion. Although they continued to sit 
and deliberate from time to time 
until 171 7> it is evident that they had 
not that influence over the public 
mind which could be to them in the 
place of authority. That ecclesiasti- 
cal party, which, because of its prin- 
ciples and politics,might expect favour 
from the crown, appears to have re- 
garded, as the state did, the holding 
of convocations, an inconvenience for 
which there was no adequate compen- 
sation: — they, on the other hand, 
who insisted on their rights and privi- 
leges, were of a political party which 
was daily losing strength, and to which 
the partv in the ascendant were far 
from being likely to make concessions. 
Thus convocations seem to have been 
doomed — their proceedings armed ene- 
mies with excuses for desiring their 
suppression, and the parties into which 
they were ^vided, were almost equally 
prejudicial to their interests. On 
one side complaints of intemperance 
were to be heard, on the other suspi- 
cions were expressed of treachery. 
Against such dissension within — such 
alarm and enmity without — it would 
have required supports which the con- 
vocation had not to sustain it. Where 
the power of an assembly is derived 
from a fbrmal permission, which must 
be given or renewed whenever the 
power is to be exercised, extinction 
must be anticipated when the interests 
of the source, and of the temporary 
depositories, of power, are found at 
variance. The state was bound by no 
visible necessity to continue convoca- 
tions; it felt no little inconvenience 
arising out of their discussions. The 
period of their dissolution, under such 
circumstances, miffht not be accurately 
calculated beforenand — but nothing 
could be doubtful respecting it except 
the point of time. That was soon de- 
termined — the Hoadleian disputation 
may have seemed to be the cause why 
the crovm withheld its licence ; — it 
was only the pretence, or, at most, 
the occasion. Convocations had part- 
ed with the right of taxiiig.-.haa re* 

tained no power by the exerdse of 
which they could procure indulgence 
for discussions of which the interest 
did not s£em to equal the incoDve- 
nience. They were discontinued; and 
the little excitement and uneasiness of 
which their suppression was produc- 
tive, seems, to some extent, a proof 
that the decision of the court against 
them, was, at least, not impolitic. 

In Ireland it does not appear that 
convocations continued, for any long 
course of time, to be holden concur- 
rently with the meetings of jMurlia- 
ment. Some good is related of them, 
especially, (so far as intentions may be 
taken for good,) of the resolutions of 
the lower house. Their good designs 
were crossed and thwarted — some- 
times by indisposition on the part of 
the prelates — not unfrequently by the 
disfavour of government — and con- 
tinuaUy by the intrigues and exertions 
of a party zealous, apparently, for <'the 
Protestant cause,*' but inveterately 
hostile to the interest of the Protes- 
tant Church established. Here con- 
vocations were held at distant inter- 
vals, and, except upon one or two 
well-known occasions, with no impor- 
tant results. The last, we believe, 
was held in the year 1711. In 1727 
or 1728, a general expectation was 
entertained that a synod would be as- 
sembled again ; but the hope was dis- 
appointed — neither the government 
nor the primate. Boulter, approved of 
the design to encounter the perils of 
such an assembly, and the project 
seems to have been silently relin- 

One resolution of the Irish Convo- 
cation deserves to be remembered : — 

"On the 3rd of March, 1708," 
writes Bishop Mant, " the following re- 
solution was sent from the lower to the 
upper house : — 

" * Resolved — that the endeavouring 
the speedy conversion of the pi^iists of 
this kingdom, is a work of ereat piety 
and charity ; in order to which it is the 
opinion of this house, that preadiers, 
in all the dioceses of this kingdom, 
preaching in the Irish tongue, would be a 
great means of their conversion. And 
therefore that application be made to 
the most reverend and rieht reverend 
the lords archbishops and nishops, that 
they take into consideration what num- 
ber of such preachers will be necessary 
in every dioi^Me, and how they may be 

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No. IL — ContocaHons. 


*' To this thftir graces and lordships 
returned for answer : 

" • We think, that endeavonring the 
conversion of the papists is very com- 
mendable ; and, as to preaching in the 
Irish tongue, we think it useful where 
it is practicable.' *** 

The project appears to have been 
postponed at this time, but not aban- 
doned. It was taken up again, and 
its final failure may, perhaps, admit of 
the explanation given in the following 
extract from a letter of Archbishop 
Rin^, addressed to Dr. Swift, and 
heanng date Jolj 28, 1711 : — 

" We shall, I believe, have some con- 
sideration of methods to convert the 
natives ; but I do not find that it is de- 
sired by aU^ that they should be convert- 
ed. There is a party among us that 
have little sense of religion, and hear- 
tily hate the church : they would have 
the natives made Protestants, but such 
as themselves, are deadly afraid they 
should come into the church, because, 
say they, this would strengthen the 
church too much. Others would have 
tbem come into the church, but can't ap- 
prove of the methods proposed, which 
are— to preach to them in their own 
language, and hare the service in Irish, 
as our own canons require. So that, 
between them, I am anraid that little 
will be done, "t 

Such were the hostilities which of- 
fered themselves to the mind of 
Archbishop King, as likely to mar the 
projects for converting the native 
Iri^ Some, who could promote it, 
were disinclined to see the church 
strengthened by the accession of con- 
verts — some feared to strengthen the 
national spirit of the Irish people, by 
encouraging the use of their language. 
Such were the hostilities his grace ap- 
prehended in the year 1711. In some 
years after he seems to have feared an 
enmity of a still worse description :-* 

" In the end," writes Bishop Mant, 
"nothmg was effected towards the ao- 
complishment of Mr. Richardson's pro- 
ject for the conversion of the popish 
natives of Ireland to the Protestant 
faith. Whatever might have been his 
own wishes and efforts, and however 

the^ may havo been aided by other in- 
dividuals, they did not receive the cor- 
dial support of those in authority. And 
it is a remarkable opinion, which was 
expressed by Archbishop King, in an 
unpublished letter of the date of July 
21, 1724, applicable to this as well as to 
other cases : * It is plain to me^ by the 
methods that have been taken since the JU" 
formoHonsOnd which are yet pursued by both 
the civil and ecclesiastical powers^ that 
there never vMUp nor is, any design that aU 
should be Protestants.* "J 

We will not strive to penetrate the 
dread secret which seems partially dis- 
closed in the venerable prelate's appre- 
hension : we would only take occasion to 
remind the reader, that the failure to 
protestantise, or rather evangelise, Ire- 
land, is most unjustly charged upon the 
church established amongst us. A vi- 
cious policy, faction, and personal aims 
and ends, defeated its good counsels, 
and rendered its strenuous exertions 
to second them abortive. Happy had 
it been for Ireland, if the spirit 
evinced in the lower house of convo- 
cation had had its recognised organs in 
the lower bouse of parliament. 

Many acts by which the convocation 
rendered eminent service to the church 
and the country, have not been enu- 
merated in the preceding notice ; but 
it was not our purpose to conceal 
them. When the doctrine, discipline, 
and worship of the reformed religion 
were to be defined and settled, and 
the faith of apostolic times to be main- 
tained in its supremacy, the agencv of 
convocations was of the most serious 
and salutary importance. We do not 
deny that some matters may have been 
left undetermmed and unexplained, 
upon which thought and leamiiu[ 
might have been, in later periods, weU 
expended; but we have no such evi- 
dence of benefits derived from the 
convocation in more recent times, as 
that with which the history of our 
church in the sixteenth and early part 
of the seventeenth centuries has sup- 
plied us. Indeed it would not excite 
our wonder to be told, that, after the 
adjustment of ecclesiastical affaiifs, 
after the Book of Common Prayer 
had been completed, and canons had 

* History of the Church of Ireland, &c vol. ii. p. 164. 

{Mant's History, vol. iL p. 224. 
Mant's History, vol iL p. 230. 

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been enacted^ and the principle assert- 
ed according to whicli canons were to 
retain or to lose their authority, there 
was no longer an imperious necessity 
for holding convocations. This seems 
to he the conclusion at which the civil 
legislature and the great minority of 
secular politicians have arrived, and 
which is strenuously combated by 
many, who believe that ** to restore at 
this time to the church its synodical 
powers," would be a benefit, for which 
the state as well as the church would 
see reason to be grateful. The justice 
of this opinion we very respectfully but 
very decidedly dispute. In our Decem- 
ber number we assi^cd reasons for 
objecting to the proiect of construct- 
ing a new species of legislatttre for the 
church. We proceed now to show 
why we are equally opposed to the re- 
construction and revival of its ancient 
legislative assembly, the convocation. 

We hold, in the first place, that the 
constitution of the convocation is not 
adapted to the existing condition of 
the church and of society. We re- 
peat this our decided belief, although 
well aware that some, with whom we 
are happy to agree on other points. 
Are opposed to ds on this. They 
woula desire to see the convocations 
restored, because^ the constitution of 
these assemblies is a kind of guarantee 
against dangers most obviously to be 
apprehended. We think we discern 
dianger where they imagine security. 

The structure of the convocation is 
thus described by Mr. Lathbury :.— i 

"England is divided into the two 
provinces of Canterbury and York. 
The convocation of Canterbury consists 
of all the bishops of the province, who 
constitute the upper house ; of twenty- 
two deans, fifty-three archdeacons, 
twenty-four proctors of chapters, and 
forty-four for the parochial clergy, and 
one precentor, who compose the lower 
house. As there is no dean of the 
chapter of St. David's, the precentor is 
summoned in his stead. Landaff is also 
without a dean, yet no one is sunmioned 
as a representative. Before the disso- 
lution of the monasteries, the abbots, 
also, had seats in the upper house, at 
which time it was more niunerous than 
the lower. At present, however, the 
upper house in the province of Canter- 
bury consists of twenty-two — the lower 
of one hundred and forty-four. 

** The method of choosing the proc- 
tors for the clergy varies somewhat in 

different places. Tn the dk>ee8e of Lon- 
don each archdeaoon chooses two, a&4 
from the whole number so chosen the 
bishop selects two to attend the convo- 
cation. In Sarum the three archdea- 
cons choose six, and the six make a se- 
lection of two of their own number; 
and the same method is adopted in the 
diocese of Lichfield and Coventry. In 
Bath and Wells all the incumbents 
choose their proctors jointly. In Lb:- 
coin the clergy of the six archdeacon- 
ries send commissioners to Stamford, 
who make the necessary choice of two 
persons. In Norwich the two archdea- 
conries of Norwich and Norfolk meet 
and choose one, and the archdeaconries 
of Suffolk and Sudbury choose the 
other. The same is the case in Chi- 
chester. In ancient times the derey 
were represented in convocation by the 
archdeacons. Such is the mode of 
choosing proctors in the province of 
Canterbury. In the province of York 
two proctors, are returned by each 
archdeaconry. Were it not so, the 
numbers would be too small for the 
transaction of business. In this pro- 
vince, therefore, the proctors for the 
parochial clergy are equal in number te 
those for the chapters. 

** The archbishop is president of the 
convocation. A prolocntor is chosen 
by the clergy, who is presented to the 
archbishop. On his presentation he in- 
timates that the lower house intend to 
deliver their resolutions to the upper 
house through him, whose duty it is 
also to collect the votes of his brethren, 
and to secure the att^idance of the 

'* As president, the archbishop sum- 
mons the convocation to meet at the 
command of the king. Were he to at- 
tempt to assemble a synod of his own 
authority, he would be subject to a 
prtfmunire, and the proceedings of such 
synod would be voio. Since the act of 
submission, however, the power to smn- 
mon the convocation at the oommenee- 
ment of a new parliament has been 
granted, though for many years no bo- 
siness has been transacted. It is also 
the duty of the archbishop to prorogue 
and dissolve the convocation under the 
direction of the crown. 

** By the term * convocation * is meant 
the synod of the province either ot 
Canterbury or York, each archbishop 
summoning his own clergr, in obedi- 
ence to the royal command. The con- 
vocation is the provincial council of 
Canterbury and xork. Each province 
meets in its own synod ; but un impor- 
tant occasions, instances of which will 
occur in the course of our inquiry, the 
two provinces can act by mutoaf cen- 

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No. IT. — Convocations. 


sent or correspondence; or, commis- 
skMiers, as has sometimes been the case, 
nay be tent from York, to sit in the 
eooTocatioD of Canterbury, with full 
pewtr to act for the whole oody.'* * 

Soch was the conyooation in Eng- 
land. The following passage, from 
Bishop Mant*s history, will senre to 
show what it was here in Ireland ;— • 

"In the interral which elapsed be- 
tween the last-mentioned date (1666) 
and the year 1703, no convocation had 
been summoned. But a desire being 
then eonceired by the clergy, to be al- 
lowed what the^- esteemed their ancient 
right and privilege, it appears by ex- 
tracts from the journals of the lower 
house of conyooation, that the deans 
and archdeacons, who happened to be in 
Dublfai, availed themselves of the occa- 
sion of an approaching parliament, and 
ia their own names, and m those of their 
brethren, implored the archbishops and 
bishops, who also were then there, to 
bring the subject before the viceroy, 
and to procure that the clause, which 
had formerly summoned the clergy to 
meet hi convocation, but which had, 
from negligence or some other cause, 
besn twice omitted from the parliamen • 
tary writs, to the bishops, should now 
again be inserted. 

"On the subject beinjr, in oonse- 
qoenoe^ brought by the Duke of Or- 
mond before the queen, certain Ques- 
tions were submitted to the considera- 
tion of the archbishops and bishops then 
in Dublin, and received answers, which 
were reported to the government, to the 
following effect, on tne 5th of July in 
the same year. 

*' 1. That the last oonvocation holden 
in Ireland was after the restoration of 
the royal family, in 1661 ; that it began 
with the parliament then called, and 
coniioa^ during the said parliament, 
namely, to the year 1666; and since 
which time, till the ^ear 1692, there had 
been no parliament m Ireland. 

" % That, as to the mode of sum- 
moahig conyooations, there had been 
Bome question concerning this in 1661, 
when the Lords Justices, being the Lord 
Chancellor Eustace, and the Earls of 
Orrery and Mountrath, and the priv^ 
council, made an order for the Archbi- 
ibops of Armagh and Dublin ' to meet 
and advise of, and return their opinions, 
bow all things requisite in order to the 
convocation, and other things relating 
to the church, may be done and pre- 

pared.' To which order the two arch- 
bishops made report, 'that they had 
considered the matter, and particularly 
msuie search for a form of writ, to be 
issued as formerly, for con vc casing the 
clergy, and could find no other than 
what they annexed, which they con- 
ceived a sufiicient form to be sent to 
every of the archbishops ahd bishops 
— • Pra^monentes decanum, &c. — Premo- 
nishing the dean and chapter of your 
church of Armagh, and the archdeacon 
and the whole clergy of your diocese, 
that the same dean and archdeacon, in 
their proper persons, and the same 
chapter by one, and the same clergy by 
two, fit proctors, having severally full 
and sufficient power from the said chap- 
ter and clergy, be, at the aforesaid day 
and place personally present, for con- 
senting to such things as shall then and 
there happen to be ordained by common 

** 3. To the question of the clergy *i 
right to have a convocation on the sum- 
moning of parliament, they answered, 
that it had been * the custom for a con- 
vocation to meet with a parliament in 
Ireland, and the clergy had claimed It 
as a right. But in the two late parlia- 
ments, held in Kinff William's reign, 
the ancient form of writs, directed to 
the bishops to. appear in parlUment, 
were omitted.* 

" 4. To the question, * What autho- 
rity the oonvocation, when summoned, 
have to act, without the queen's licence 
authorising them, and, if they have any 
authority, to what matters it extends ?* 
it was observed that, ' the auiere seem- 
ed best answered by the clause in the 
writ of licence, directed to the convo- 
cation, and dated the 21 st of March, 
1661 ; which writ was again renewed, 
after the death of Primate Bramhall, 
Nov. 10, 1665.' This writ, which is 
cited in full, was addressed to the Arch- 
bishop of Armagl\, and to the other 
archbishops, bishops, deans, archdea- 
cons, and proctors capitular and cleri- 
cal ; and gave them free power to meet 
in convocation, from time to time during 
the parliament; and to communicate, 
treat, consult, and conclude, concerning 
such articles, canons, rules ecclesiastic, 
&c., which should appear to them con- 
ducive to the increase of the honour and 
true worship of God, to the eradicating 
of heresies and evil customs from 
Christ's vineyard, to the procuring and 
preservinff of the benefit and peace of 
the church ; and also to make ordi- 
nances and decrees, having the force of 
ecclesiastical canons and constitutions, 

* History of the Convocation, p. lia 

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An Eceleiiastieal Legislature. 


in the premises, and to pnblisti and pro- 
mulgate the same, haring first had and 
obtained the royal consent. 

•* To this was added, that * the clergy 
of Ireland had likewise taxed them- 
selves in convocation ; and in the last 
parliament, when no convocation sat, 
the bishops protested against the par- 
liament's taxmg them in a land-tax, in 
order to preserve their right to tax 

•* 5. In answer to the ouestion, * What 
are the rales and methoas of their pro- 
ceedings ?' it was stated, that * the con- 
Tocation of Ireland was a national s^r- 
nod; that all the archbishops and bi- 
shops sat in an upper house ; the deans, 
archdeacons, and proctors of the clergy 
in a lower house; that they were go- 
remed by the common rules of synods, 
each house acting and adjourning by 
itself; and that no canon or rule was 
made or obliging but with the concur- 
rence of both houses, ratified and con- 
firmed by the royal assent, under the 
great seal/* 

Such were the replies of the bi- 
shops. The views of the clergy as to 
the rights of convocations were ex- 
pressed in an address, to which the 
prelates assented. The following ex- 
tract -from it is given by Bishop 
Mant: — 

" We conceive that the clergy of this 
kingdom, when met in a perfect and en- 
tire convocation, do assemble in two 
distinct capacities, namely, in a civil 
and in an ecclesiastical capacity. In 
the first, we apprehend ourselves to be 
called together by her majesty's writ in 
the clause prsemunientes, and that in 
-virtue of this we have a right to be 
formed into a regular body, to be atten- 
dant upon and counsellors to the parlia- 
ment,f in whatever may relate to the 
temporal rights of the church, as inter- 
woven with the state. In our ecclesi- 
msti(»l capacity, we look upon it as ab- 
solutely necessary, to be summoned bpr 
the provincial writ, and your graces 
metropolitical authority consequent up- 
on that writ, which forms us into a na- 
tional and truly ecclesiastical svnod, to 
frame canons, to reform disciphne, cen- 
sure heresy, and to exert that jurisdic- 
tion which belongs to us in conjunction 
with your lordships, as the representa- 
tive members of the church. "f 

In the event of the revival of con- 
vocationsy we should have* at first, 
three different houses of assembly- 
Canterbury, York, and Ireland, (in 
which all the provinces met in one as- 
sembly,) presided over by the Arch- 
bishops of Canterbury, York, and Ar- 
magh. Is this a time when a wise and 
faithful man would desire to see the 
Anglican and Irish branches of the 
catholic church exhibited in stsparation 
from each other ? Is it the time he 
would choose for adjusting, or carry- 
ing into effect the terms on which they 
were to meet in one assembly ? We 
think it enough thus hesitatingly to 
advert to a topic on which we have 
thought more than we would hold it 
prudent to express. We turn to an 
objection upon which it is less perilous 
to be communicative. 

Hopes are cherished by some, that^ 
from the manner in which its mem- 
bers are chosen, the convocation could 
not be betrayed into measures of pre- 
cipitancy or passion. One estate, con- 
sisting of prelates ; another, to a very 
great extent composed of members 
whom the prelates of the church have 
selected ; the remainder, (a remainder 
comparatively small,) returned as their 
representatives by the incumbents of 
parishes, by colleges, and chapters: 
who could fear rashness in an as- 
sembly thus constituted? A ques- 
tion, however triumphant the tone in 
which it is pronounced, is not an argu- 
ment. Even in such an assembly any 
man who knows the efiFect of power 
on the human mind, may be afraid of 
rashness. <' All assemblies," said Arch- 
bishop King, ^<that have been long 
chained up, prove unruly when first 
let loose." We do not think die 
present a jnncttire in which any peril, 
likely to be caused to the church by 
undue boldness or activity, should be 
wantonly or unnecessarily hazarded. 
Man^ a man there is who will calmly 
acquiesce in things as they are, so long 
as he remains in a private station, and 
who will think that the acquisition of 
power to effect changes, involves the 
duty of undertaking them. Even they 
who seem least extravagant in their 

• History, &c. vol. ii. p. 160. 

f It appears that petitions were repeatedly addressed to the crown from tko 
Enifflish conrocations, praying for this privileire. 
^Hist, voL ii. p. let r © 

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No. II. — Convocations, 


Tiews of what ft convocation may ac- 
complish, expect somethmg. If they 
deprecate the introduction of novel- 
tiesy and the abolition of what has 
been from of old, they expect, that, at 
least, the conyocation should settle, 
with authority, those matters of doc- 
tnne and discipline which are to be 
held essential, and distinguish them 
from those in which the church in- 
dulges her children with freedom. 
Little, or trivial, as this may seem, it 
would be a chaise ; and might prove 
to be attended with the most serious 
consequences. To pronounce some- 
thing essentia], which had been previ- 
ously indifferent, is, plainly, to render 
the church more exclusive. The ef- 
fect of such a procedure would be, 
perhaps, more pernicious than that of 
adding to our formularies of disci- 
pline or doctrine some principle wholly 
new. Matters upon which members 
and ministers of the church are free 
to differ, are things upon which the 
freedom allowed is exercised, and opi- 
nions favourable and adverse are main- 
tained : to exalt one class of opinions 
into articles of necessity, and de- 
nounce another class as inadmissible, 
is to exclude one party from the 
church, and, indeed, to frame a new 

On the other hand, were an assem- 
bly, having authority, to open what 
the church has closed, to pronounce 
inherent that which has been de- 
clared essential, the evil, though of an 
opposite character, would be not less 
momentous: — enemies to the church 
as it now exists, would, perhaps, be ad- 
mitted into its body, and enabled to 
harm it. But there are matters, it is 
•aid, upon which the mind of the 
church has not been so clearly made 
Iniown as to preclude the necessity of 
more exact definition. To declare 
with authority what she demands, and 
wherein she indulges, although it may 
change the condition of churchmen, 
will onlv assign its true character 
to the church. We have considered 
this third case; and, without pro- 
nouncing on the correctness or fallacy 
of its assumptions, confidently express 
oar fixed persuasion, that no such de- 
licate duty as that of declaring with 
authori^ "the mind of the church" 
in doubtful cases, ought, at this time, 
to be confided to a newly-constructed 
l^gisUfv^ Toennr^aoqu^eseeno^in 

decisions upon matters of this nature, 
would demand all the authority be- 
longing to an assembly long obeyed 
and reverenced. A convocation, li- 
censed to determine upon them, could 
not reckon upon the habitual re- 
spect of any parties, and would, by fail- 
ing to satisfy some, rather provoke than 
allay contention; and, forbidding to- 
lerance where uniformity could not be 
attained, would break the bands of 
concord, and render separation inevi- 
table. Such is our deliberate opinion. 
We need not be more precise in the 
expression of it, until the advocates of 
the proposal to restore to the convo- 
cation its ancient powers, have conde- 
scended to state, in detail, the cases 
upon which the revived legislature 
would have to determine. 

But, supposing it to be the truth, 
that there is nothing to fear from 
rashness in an assembly so constituted 
as the convocation would be, b there 
not another inconvenience, scarcely 
less serious, to be apprehended, aris- 
ing out of the very peculiarity of con- 
stitution for which convocations are 
desired and praised ? Would the con- 
vocation be regarded as an assembly 
where the whole church was fairly 
and fully represented? To acquire 
the influence of a representative as- 
sembly, the convocation should have 
an altered, and, we use the word not 
invidiously, a more liberal constitu- 
tion. Clerey and laity of the Church 
of England would demand such a 
change — the altered condition of the 
church would insist upon it. 

It cannot escape the observation of 
a prudent man, who has sought to ac- 
quaint himself with the state of eccle- 
siastical affairs in England, that the 
church now contuns within its capa- 
cious limits two classes of ministers, 
distinguished, if not by character, by 
the circumstances of their respective 
positions. The voluntary principle 
nas had its appointed sphere within 
our church, among the agencies by 
which true religion is to be promoted. 
It has been employed in supplying 
the inevitable deficiencies of an esta- 
blishment. As the wants of a rapidly- 
increasing population have outgrown 
the power of^ ancient endowments to 
make provision for them, the true vo- 
luntary principle, the parent of old 
establishments, has re-appeared; not 
in th^ menacing fo^m of tnat destruq* 

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An Ecehria*9Ual Legitlmiure. 

\ [FdK 

tiv* I jstem which has tuurptd its 11M116 
to deetroj its oftpring, hut with a gnu 
cious aspect, with offerings in its hand, 
and wiUi the purpose to repair> and 
restore^ and extend, whatever, in its 
ancient works, it has found decayed, or 
fallen, or inadequate. The testimonies 
to its presence and power are now 
yery numerous throughout the empire* 
The ministers for whom it makes pro- 
vision constitute a hodj of very consi- 
derahle influence. No ecclesiastical 
legislature in which this portion of the 
clergy is not ade<}uately represented, 
would have sufficient influence to re« 
commend its decisions ; and we feel 
persuaded, that, to admit the ministers 
who thus amiahly represent voluntary- 
ism into a fair participation of power, 
would be, in tne Judgment of some> 
who call for an ecclesiastical legrisla- 
ture, to mar the peace and usefulness 
of the projected assembly. Until the 
respective chums and rights of these 
two important elements in the ecclesi- 
astical system are amicably adjusted, 
or until the congregational and the 
parochial clergy (if we may so name 
them) cease to be regarded as distinct 
classes, it will be impossible to fhime 
Convocations so as that they can he 
held with advantage. 

We are far ttom looking with jea- 
lousy or fear on the distinction to 
which we have adverted. We see that 
the classes are, each in its several de- 
partments, advancing the interests of 
religion and of the church, and that 
they are mutually improving each 
other. In the one we recognise depo- 
sitaries of the learning for which the 
Church of Endand has long been 
distinguished; in the other we are 
made to feel the popular power, in 
which, until of late years, it was a 
fashion to pronounce her deficient. 
We would not be thought to deny 
popular qualities to one class, or to 
deny learning to the other ; but we 
hold the distinctions to be, substan- 
tially, such as we have described. The 
Church of England will become, in due 
Course of time, honoured by both, and 
be mightily increased in moral povrer 
by the two-fold agency. By one in- 
strumentality her borders will be en- 
larged ; by the other her principles 
will be conserved. The con^egations 
will continue to demand eloquence | 
but the popular orator will soon learn 
Ihat, to oontintM nseAil to his mhds« 

tration, he must feed his lamp with 
learning, as well as by meditation and 
prayer. Colleges and bishops will 
require learning, but will regard it ss 
among the recommendations of those 
whom they promote, that they are good 
** conductors" for their aequbitions, 
and that their lore is rich in its adap- 
tation to the wants and the condition 
of man. Thus all will work together 
for good. Learning will be held back 
firom the temptation of too eagerly 
prosecuting researches in which the 
p^eral heart of humanity can feel no 
mterest; eloquence will become too 
wise to waste, in exciting trandeot 
sympathies, powers that ought to be 
employed in Instructing^ convincing, 
and persuading; and thus will t£» 
church command the services of those 
who keep watch by the light of an- 
cient times, and take heed that the 
lamp which the apostles lighted, and 
the catholic church has ever fed, fiul 
not for lack of oil,— as well as of those 
who observa all changes in the spirit 
and condition of man, and, bringing 
forth ttom their treasury things new 
as well as old, make proud hearts fed 
that the light, by which Ood and his 
church enjoin that they should wor- 
ship and walk, is no less gracious and 
good to direct the wisest of woman 
bom, in this our day, than it was, 
nearly two thousand years ago, to di- 
rect the humblest fisherman or shep- 
herd. Thus, while the church walks 
with witnesses from the fhr past, ^ving 
counsel to the pi^esent, and making 
preparation for tne future, its charac- 
ter of permanence is preserved, and, 
keeping pace with the advancing intel- 
ligence of the agei its progress is not 

We have strong fisars that a process 
ft'om which we look for so much good# 
would be disturbed by the Summoning 
a convocation <«fbr dispatch of busi- 
ness." The legitimate assembly would 
soon he confronted by a voluntary 
rival. Parties now working to the 
same end, under the same government, 
would be forced into oppositioui-— one 
party passionately contending for 
things indifferent, because they were 
old ; the other undervaluing antiquity 
because its monitions were not, neces- 
sarily, true and holy; and both de- 
parting, in different dhrections, firom 
the finely-tempered rule of the chuf di 
to wfaoaa ialMsta eadi thought itsell 

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Nth IL^CoHvoeaticni. 


devoted. DftOgers such at these pre- 
sent tiiemselTes to tn, when we think 
of an ecclefiastlcal legislature called 
into existence amidst oor present heats 
and ezdtementK. Accordingly, we 
deprecate the scheme of restoring the 
hoQses of conrocation. 

Bnt are there not dispntes and con- 
troversies in the church, which ought 
to be silenced by the authoritj of a 
free convocation r Is not one minis- 
ter found to preach> as the faith, what 
another pronounces heterodox and 
£Use? Are not complaints frequent 
against some, who are accused of sup- 
pressing the b^t comforts of Gospel 
truth ? against others, who are said to 
ifford such representations of divine 
grace as hold out encouragements not 
to penitence, but to sin, and even to 
pui^ses of sinning? Are not these 
complaints, and many others which it 
is onnecessary to specify, made in a 
temper alien from that in which the 
Gospel should be preached or defend- 
ed—from that in which Christian mi- 
nisters should remonstrate with or re- 
buke each other : and is it not desira- 
ble that such unseemly contentions 
should be suppressed? Shall heresy 
be taught as truth — shall gainsayers 
or cahimniators be permitted to stig- 
matise truth as heresy ? The answer 
to questions of this nature is too ob- 
vious to need formal expression. We 
can affirm with equal confidence and 
sincerity, that if we thought the evils 
attendant upon the conmtion of the 
church remediable by a convocation, 
we should be strenuous petitioners for 
the royal licence. 

How should a convocation proceed 
to the correction of evils sucn as. we 
are here reminded of? Would it ad- 
dress itself, in its first sittings, to a 
censure of books? The Council of 
Trent, a council, one would be apt to 
think, sufficiently daring and power- 
folf delegated this office to a commis- 
lion, and never ventured upon a re- 
view of the commissioners labours. 
Former convocations In England un- 
dertook the task, and do not appear to 
hold out encouragement to their suc- 
cessors, if successors are ever g^ven 
them, to take up their abortive enter- 
prise. A single instance will be> per- 
naps, enough to satisfy the reader that 
convocations were not, necessarily, 
the courts before which charges 
>gMn8t the writers of suipected books 

could be brought, with most certainty 
of having a satisfactory judgment 
pronounced upon them. We take the 
case of Whiston, and transcribe 
Bishop Burnett's account of it : — 

** An incident happened that diverted 
their thoughts to another matter : Mr. 
Whiston, the professor of mathematics 
in Cambridge, a learned man, of a so- 
ber and exemplary Ufe, but much set on 
hunting for paradoxes, fell on reviving 
the Anan heresv, though he pretended 
to differ from Arius in several particu- 
lars ; yet, upon the main, he was partly 
Apollinarist, partly Arian ; for be 
thought the Nous, or Word, was all the 
soul that acted in our Saviour's body. 
He found his notions favoured by the 
apostolical constitutions ; so he rec- 
koned them a part, and the chief part, 
of the canon of the Scriptures. For 
these tenets he was censured at Cam- 
bridge, and expelled the university. 
Upon that he wrote a vindication of 
himself and his doctrine, and dedicated 
it to the convocation, promising a larger 
work on these subjects. The uncon« 
tested way of proceedine in such a case 
was, that the oishop of the diocese in 
which he lived should cite him into his 
court, in order to his conviction or cen- 
sure; from whose sentence an appeal 
lay to the archbishop, and from him to 
the crown. Or the archbishop might 
proceed, in the first instance, in a court 
of audience. But we saw no clear pre- 
cedents, of anv proceedings in convoca- 
tion, where the jurisdiction was con« 
tested; a reference made by the high 
commissioners to the convocation, 
where the party submitted to do no- 
nance, being the only precedent tnat 
appeared in history ; and even of this 
we bad no record ; so that it not being 
thought a clear warrant for our pro- 
ceedmg, we were at a stand. The act 
that settled the course of the appeals in 
King Henry the Eighth's time, made no 
mention of sentences in convocation; 
and yet, by the act in the first of Queen 
Elizabeth, that defined what should be 
judged heres;^ , that judgment was de- 
clared to be in the crown. By all this 
(which the archbishop laid before the 
bishops in a letter, that he wrote to 
them on this occasion), it seemed 
doubtful whether the convocation could, 
in the first instance, proceed against a 
man for heresy ; and their proceedings, 
if they were not warranted by law, 
might involve them in a pramunire* So 
the upper house, in an address, prayed 
the queen to ask the opinions of the 
judges, and such others as she thought 
fit, concerning these doubts, that they 
might know Kow the law stood in this 

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An Eecksiastieal Legislaiwte. 


matter. Eight of the judges, with the 
attorney and solicitor-general, gare 
their opinion, that we had a jurisdic^ 
tion, and might proceed in such a case ; 
but brought no express law nor prece- 
dent to support their opinion. They 
only observed, that the law books spoke 
of the convocation as baring jurisdic- 
tion, and they did not see that it was 
ever taken from them. They were also 
of opinion, that an appeal lay from the 
sentence of convocation to the crown ; 
but they reserved to themselves a power 
to change their mind, in case upon an 
argument that might be made for a 
prohibition, they should see cause for 
It. Four of the judges were positively 
of a contrary opinion, and maintained 
it from the statutes made at the refor- 
mation. The queen, having received 
these different opinions, sent them to 
the archbishop, to be laid before the 
two houses of convocation ; and, with- 
out taking any notice of the diversity 
between them, sho wrote that, there 
being now no doubt to be made of our 
jurisdiction, she did expect that we 
should proceed in the matter before us. 
In this it was visible, that those who 
advised the queen to write that letter, 
considered more their own humours 
than her honour. Yet two p^eat doubts 
still remained, even supposmg we had a 
jurisdiction. The first was, of whom 
the court was to be composed ; whether 
only of the bishops, or what share the 
lower house had in this judiciary autho- 
rity. The other was, by what dele- 
gates, in case of an appeal, our sen- 
tence was to be examined : were no 
bishops to be in the court of delegates? 
or was the sentence of the archbishop 
and his twenty-one suffragan bishops, 
with the clergy of the province, to be 
judged by the Archbishop of York and 
his three suffragan bishops? These 
difficulties appearmg to be so great, the 
bishops resolved to begin with that, in 
which they had, by the queen's licence, 
an undisputed authority ; which was, to 
examine and censure the book, and to 
see if his doctrine was not contrary to 
the Scriptures, and the first four gene- 
ral councils, which is the measure set by 
law to judge heresy. They drew out 
some propositions from his book, which 
seemed plainly to be the reviving of 
Arianism, and censured them as such. 
These they sent down to the lower 
house, who, though they excepted to 
one proposition, yet censured the rest 
m the same manner. This the archbi- 
shop (being then disabled by the gout) 
sent by one of the bishops to the queen 


for her assent, who promised to oonsi^ 
der of it Bat, to end the matter at 
once, at their next meeting in winter, 
no answer being come from the queen, 
two bishops were sent to ask it ; but 
she could not tell what was become of 
the paper which the archbishop had sent 
her ; so a new extract of the censure 
was again sent to her. But she has not 
jret thought fit to send any answer to 
It. So Whiston's affair sleeps, though 
he has published a large work, in four 
volumes, in octavoj, justifying his doc- 
trine, and maintaining the canoniealness 
of the apostolical constitutions, prefer- 
ring their authority, not only to the 
Epistles, but even to the Gospels. In 
this last I do not find he has made any 
proselyUt^ though he has set himself 
much to support that paradox."* 

So powerless was the conyocation 
to suppress heterodoxy^ or to punish 
the promoters of it. Many instances 
similar to that which we have cited, 
might be given in support of our 
views, (those of Clark and Hoadley 
may present themselves to the reader, 
as cases in point,) but we do not wish 
to load our pages unnecessarily. In 
truth, an assembly so constituted as 
the convocation, is ill-adapted for 
discharging the duties of a court of 
ecclesiastical law. It is true, that in 
civil affairs the highest coort of judi- 
cature is placed within the houses of 
parliament, but it is equally true, and 
instructively so, that parliament does 
not constitute this highest court. A 
court of appeal which pronounces a 
final ju4jrnient on cases of equi^ or 
law, should be free from the spirit of 
party, and uninfluenced by passion or 
prejudice. Still more necessary is 
this freedom from misleading influ- 
ences, if the subject, on which judg- 
ment is to be given, be of a rel^ous 
nature. History demonstrates that 
such an office could not be with ad- 
vantage assigned in past times to the 
convocation : .assuredly it is not to a 
legislature created amidst the heats 
and asperities of times like ours, so 
solemn and delicate a duty could be 

There are some who expect, that 
were a convocation re-erected into a 
legislature, parties in the church 
would cease to oppose each other ; at 
least would become more template 

* Burnett's History of His Own Times, vol. vL p. 113^ 

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No. IL^^onvocations. 


in their mataal Antagoniszny while 
waiting for a decision to which both 
would be foand ready to yield sabrais- 
sion. Tims it fares^ they say, in mat* 
ters which fall under the jurisdiction 
of parliaments — parties without that 
assembly suspending their animosities^ 
eroundingy as it were, their arms, and 
K>okingon, idle though interested spec- 
tators, while their respective cham- 
pions wage, ardently, the delegated 
contest. We certain^ have not read 
history in the books of those who 
form these amiable anticipations. Our 
histories and our experience have 
taught us a different lesson. We have 
read of angry passions inflamed rather 
than allayed by parliamentary discus- 
nons, and so far have we found the 
|)eople in many cases irom acquiescing 
in the issues of a senatorial contest, 
that we have heard of their threaten- 
ing to rise, en masse, and march 
upon Westminster, or even upon St. 
James's — nay, of Uieir carrying their 
menace into act, and exhibiting an 
array of physical force, as an auxUianr 
meet for that intellectual power which 
had been exerted in their behalf un- 

But even were we to concede that 
parUamentary discussions have a tran- 
quillising effect on the public mind, or 
to think with the Bishop of Salisbury, 
^ the summoning a parliament for 
^patch of business, causes a lull in 
the stormy politics of Ireland, we could 
iK»t, therefore, concede to his lordship 
that the issue of a license to the 
houses of convocation would have a 
sunilar effect upon religious contro- 
^w»y. The cases are essentially dif- 
ferent — as plainly different as action 
*Dd opinion. The decisions of a con- 
vocation could have no beneficial effect 
on any, but those who were persuaded 
^ approve them — the enactments of 
the civil legislature are satisfied toith 
^Mience, For an honest minister, 
whose belief is abstractedlv different 
from that which the church decUres 
®>8«ntial, there 'is no resource but 
*«pwation. It is not enoug^h that he 
do not obtrude hb heterodoxy on his 
^'Bodates, or on his flock ; he must 
from his heart renounce it, or else 
'^ign a post which he cannot hold 
out by diMcmbling. Civil obedience 
does not imply belief in the affirma- 
tion^ if such there be, in an act of 
parliament, or in the decisions of its 

authorised expounders ; it implies no- 
thing more than it is, namely, submis- 
sion to a declared law, a subminsion 
strictly compatible with an opinion 
that the law is bad, and that it ought 
to be altered. A minority, therefore, 
very consistently acquiesces in the 
votes, by which its purposes have been 
frustrated, while, at the same time, it 
hopes and endeavours to ensure their 
ultimate success. It is not so in mat- 
ters of faith, on which a convocation 
may pronounce — in such cases acqui- 
escence implies belief, cordial, sincere ; 
and unless a minority have the gift to 
renounce the opinion for which it has 
contended, and to embrace that which 
it rejected and condemned, it can relieve 
itself from the guilt of duplicity only 
by secession. How passionate then 
would be the contests to which the 
project of a convocation would give 
occasion. Contests in the election of 
members — contests within the houses 
of assembly — contests in the constitu- 
encies without, when it depended on 
their issue which section or party in 
the church, as now existing, was to 
constitute the whole church, and which 
to take its place with dissenters. 

It is not within the province of a 
convocation, or any other legislative 
assembly, to impart to disputants, 
within or without the limits of our 
church, the gift which divests con- 
troversy of its bitterness, and renders 
it profitable. No convocation can be- 
stow a Christian temper ; no contro- 
versy which is not leavened by such a 
temper, can continue pure from into- 
lerance and rancour. That the health- 
ful spirit from which it proceeds may be 
shed largely on our church we should 
earnestiy pray ; and in our several sta- 
tions we should watch vigilantly that 
it be not disturbed in ourselves by any 
uncharitableness. Here is an end 
worthy of a good man's aim. By self- 
restraint, by prayer, by precept, by 
example, by the "word in season," and 
by the eloquence of what is not less 
prevailing, a seasonable silence — to 
awake, and animate, and promote the 
spirit of Christian toleration, until it 
is diffused widely among all who pro- 
fess and call themselves Christians ; 
here is a work that beseems a servant 
of Christ — a work upon which no 
danger attends ; which, where the 
frailty of human nature leaves it im- 
perfect, involves no worse consequence 

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An Eedenoiticml Legislature. 


than failura ; and whichy where God 
gives it the rich blessing we are en- 
couraged to hope» will have accom- 
plished good without the ordinary alloy 
of evil. He who schemes, and toils* 
and petitions for a convocation, labours 
after an end most probably unattain- 
able — of doubtful efficacy, if won — 
and which can not be won without 
much previous contention : he who 
would promote unity among brethren, 
and who would propose such an object 
to himself, as that which is most wor- 
thy of a Christian philosopher, aims 
at a good end, and will be taught to 
feel that none but purely Christian 
means will be available in his strides 
to attain it. 

We think the present state of the 
church eminently favourable. We think 
it not presumptuous to hope that it 
has been providentially designed to 
favour and encourage this charitable 
undertaking. The faith, as delivered 
to the apostles — as handed down iVom 
them through successive ages to the 
present day, is carefully guarded and 
distinguished, and enjoined; the phi- 
losophy which waits upon this precious 
deposit is left of range as ample, and 
circumstance as varied, as the condi- 
tion and the spirit of man can demand. 
Nothing is enjoined as essential which 
Holy Scripture does not declare ; no- 
thing is rejected as absurd or sinful, 
which Scripture does not condemn^ 
and which has the sanction of antiquity 
and reason. We say, give such a 
church, and the agencies educated 
within it, time — let them have the ad- 
vantage of being exercised in the fair 
Md which society now affords them— 
•zeroised in the presence of a crowd of 
witnesses, who are capable of discern* 
ing unfairness, and who can feel and 
love charity ; let them continue to be 
thus exercised, and in time disputants 
who are drawn to esteem one another, 
will be influenced to feel less severely 
towards the peculiarities by which they 
are mutually distinguished. While 
distant and little known, they saw only 
what they accounted each other's 
defects — and these they beheld enlarged 
and aggravated; when drawn together 
in the bonds of peace, they will be- 
come more sensible to the importance 
of the great truths in which they are 
agreed, and tib^r differences will di- 
minish in the presence of these princi- 
|^es» until they are se^Mspedu. la 

trath, a time teems A{^oaohiog, wbm 
all pure-hearted men will be enabled 
to discern the distinction between 
religion and metaphysics ; between 
the Gospel and human inferences from 
it ; and, while they rejoice in their 
common belief in the one, will be taoght 
by it to tolerate diversity of opinion 
respecting the other. We are satisfied 
that thinking men will discern many 
evidences of a process such as this. 
We do not defsire to see it accelerated 
by any legislative enactments, and we 
would not willingly expose it to the 
hazard of being practised upon fay a 

While we write thus, we would not 
be understood to insinuate, that there 
u nothing in the circumstances and 
condition of the church which calls 
for change or correction. We are not 
so unobserving, or so wholly ''con- 
tented with thmgs as they are.'* We 
feel only that it is not from a convoca- 
tion we look for the desired amend- 
ments. Generally speaking, we would 
say that the practices, formularies, and 
doctrines of our church demand expla- 
nation rather than change; but if 
there be matter in which sJteration, 
retrenchment, or addition is desirable, 
the church, even in its present estate^ 
may make the necessary adjustment 
Such, at least, is the conclusion at 
which we have arrived, after some 
bought and inquiry. Let the peti- 
tioners fbr a new ecclesiastical legisla- 
ture, or for the revival of convoca- 
tions, declare frankly the purposes at 
which they ultimately aim — and we 
venture to predict, that if their intents 
and schemes are found to be good, 
the Church of England, even aa abe 
is, can accomplish, or accord them. 
We are, however, we confess, cau- 
tious almost to timidity on the subject 
of chang^e — and would scarcely wish 
to see any, the slightest iteration, 
suddenly made, in such a manner as 
to be irrevocable. We would hare it 
proved by time and use, before it was 
established among the essentials of our 
^stem. We would have it offered for 
the acoeptanoe of the church at large* 
rather than made matter of authorita- 
tive injunction. We would have its 
soundness in principle, its goodness and 
wisdom, first carefiilly examined by a 
deliberative assembly of the heads of 
our ehuroh ; we would have its expe* 
^Dcy fcr these tiaiM tested and 

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No. IL'^CofwocaHoM. 


ratified in a roluntary acceptance of it 
by the clergy and the congregations ; 
and would not have it» until tnis two- 
fold and extended ordeal was success- 
folly endnredy classed among those 
forms of sound words, or those edify- 
ing ceremonies^ which the Church of 
Ei^Iand sanotiona. 

We are not afraid to inggest a 
oonrst tbqa cautions, firom an appre- 
hension that it maij be said to savour 
of papal policy. It is a policy whioh 
Romanism borrowed from the church 
catholic ; a policy perilous, and it may 
be pemicioos-^where, in the eclipse of 
Scripture and reason, it works in the 
dark— but which, in the present con- 
dition of our churchy and of society, 
would be safe and beneficial. At the 
same time, we would be understood to 
ofier it only as a deYice, preferable to 
the project of a oonTocation. To that 
project^ we are — as we think, the cir- 
ewnstances of our times are — decidedly 
oppoHd. We are opposed to it» be- 

cause we think no case of necessity 
can be made out for exposing our 
church to the dangers which we dis- 
cern among its inevitable consequences. 
We are opposed to it, because they 
who are its promoters have not declared 
the purposes which they expect it is to 
serve. We are opposed to it, because 
we think the discontinuance of convo- 
cations a providential arrangement, to 
protect our church from changes which 
would have debased, if not destroved 
it ; and, although we do not think it 
expedient to enter into an account of 
the dangers through which our pure 
religion passed since the year 1711, 
unhurt) because Qod had deHvered 
and eontifmed to preserve her, from an 
ecclesiastical legislatvrei we are not 
afraid to affirq), that many a reflecting 
man will disicem, as we do, a special 
and a protecting Providence in that 
very condition of the church, over 
which some lament as a state of weak- 
ness and desertion. 

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Beranger and his Songs* 




Pierre Jean de Beranger was born 
at Paris, in the year 1780, as we are 
told in his sone of the ** Tailor and 
the Fairy." He was brought up at 
his grandfather's till he was nine years 
old. Of his father and mother very 
little is known. In his tenth year 
he was sent to his maternal aunt, the 
wife of an innkeeper at Peronne. His 
sojourn at this place he has commemo- 
rated in the '' HecoUections of Child- 
hood," and here he seems to have 
verified the first part ^f the Fairy's 
prophecy, and become 

** Oar^OQ d^Auberge.'* 

He was taught to read Telemachus 
by his aunt. An odd volume of Vol- 
taire, falling in his way at the same 
time, very probably gave his ideas the 
first tinge of that bold scepticism for 
which his opinions are remarkable. 
At the age of fifteen he was bound 
apprentice at the printing-house of M. 
Laisney, of Peronne. Subsequently 
he made it a matter of no little pride 
that he had been taught the trade of 
Franklin. At this time he also made 
some progress — he confesses it to have 
been a very slow one — in the improve- 
ment of an imperfect education. 

It was at the school founded by M. 
BaJue de Bellanglise, of Peronne, that 
the eenius of Beranger received its 
decisive bias and development. This 
school was instituted and conducted 
after the principles and maxims of the 
founder's favorite philosopher, Rous- 
seau. In accordance with the spirit 
of that stirring period, it presented, 
at the same time, the aspects of a 
camp and a political arena. The 
children wore uniforms, pronounced 
orations, and sent deputations to the 
revolutionary government on the oc- 
casion of every notable public occur- 
rence. Thus were our lyrist's ideas 
enlarged with the formation of his 
taste and style, and questions of na- 
tional interest received that plRce in 
his mind which, as his songs sufficiently 
testify, they ever ailer occupied, making 
an uncompromising patriotism the fore- 
most distinction of his muse. 

At the age of seventeen he retorned 

to Paris. About this time he attempted 
a comedy, with which he grew ex- 
tremely dissatisfied on perusmg a vo- 
lume of Moliere. He alsd meditated 
an epic poem, to be called '' Clovis,'* 
the execution of which he formally— 
and perhaps fortunately — postponed 
till he should have reached the age of 
thirty. Nothing further, however, 
has been heard of it. 

In 1803, he obtained the patronage 
of Lucien Buonaparte, to whom he bad 
addressed a very republican epistle, 
enclosing his earliest poetic attempts. 
In 1809, he became a clerk at the 
University of Paris, with the moderate 
salary of about eighty pounds a year. 
His nrst volume of songs was published 
in 1815, when he was thirty-five years 

This publication placed Beranger in 
the rank of the first song- writers of his 
country. The poetry of songs was 
found to have received a novel cha- 
racter from his genius ; and the chief 
distinctions of his own were their simple 
elegance and condensation. These, 
with a buoyant enjoyment, great bold- 
ness of thought, and a high tone of 
feeling, combined to distinguish him 
alike from all preceding and contem- 
porary lyrists. The style of Beranger 
shows his individual predilections for 
the simple and the real. He was never 
taught Greek or Latin. But he made 
himself acquainted, through the me- 
dium of translation, with the classic 
authors ; (and to be able to do this 
says a deal for the power and inge- 
nuity of the man's mind) ; and seems 
to have caught, happily, a portion of 
the spirit of antique poetry : he says 
of himself, in his " Imaginary Voyage": 
** I WM a Greek ; Pythagoras is riyhU" 

At the same time, he has made use of 
none of those conventional aids which 
preceding poets had borrowed from the 
old fanciful mythologies. The worn 
peculiarities of classic allusion and 
phraseology, so long the imitative 
jarffon of modern poetry, were laid 
aside by Beranger with a weli-judgipg 
feeling of those influences which, with 
a more universal inspiration, were de- 

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Beranget and his Songi^ 


reloping themselves over the face and 
in the heart of society, giving the Muse 
an altered character m accordance with 
that of the ase in which her voice was 
to be heard. He felt that poetry should 
not exclusively breathe the high atmos- 
|»here of a privileged class ; but that 
It should be made popular, and urn* 
plified to the level of men's common in- 
terests and feelings. Increased power, 
and, consequently, an increasing intel- 
l^nce, were placing the suffrages of 
literary celebrity in a great measure 
in the hands of the people. Born 
Amon^ them and of them, and boast- 
ings je stds du peupU, 'Omsi que mes 
amomrg, Beranger was led to make 
them his audience and his inspiration. 
He himself says — ^'Lepeuple, c*egt ma 

Beranger and our own Moore are 
both popular poets. Both manifest 
strong national predilections, and 
country is the source of the higher 
induration of both. Both wrote in 
a spirit opposed to the principle of 
the governing powers in their respec- 
tive nations : both were poetic malcon- 
tents, and helped to make others mal- 
content also ; but all this with a 
difkrence. Moore has disseminated 
trijtson — only in the verse of his imita- 
tors: Beranger excited it in practical 
prose, (which rhymes appositely with 
moim). The Rebellion of our Silken 
Thomas has been peacefully exhaled 
in the perfiimed atmosphere of the 
sslons and drawing-rooms, effecting 
sad inspiring little more than 

"IW kopef and fMrt that shako a slDfle ball ;" 

(though, by the way, there may be a 
great many who don't think these such 
very inconsiderable things, after all ;) 
the disaffection of Beranger was borne 
abroad on the vehement breath of a 
tumultuous democracy, till the spirit 
vhich it helped to evoke had laid pros- 
trtte an ancient dynasty. Moore's 
sentiment is enveloped in a vague and 
<&tant association, and is somehow 

rendered still less formidable by the 
very graceful array in which it pre- 
sents itself. The thought of Berai^er 
is bare, and has a definite aim> and is 
launched against it with a direct and 
muscular vigorousness which is unequi^ 
vocal, and brings itself and the object 
of its hostility to immediate issue. The 
one resembles the sword of Harmo- 
dius, sheathed in its myrtles ; the other 
is the palpable dagger of Brutus. 
Moore's style is elegant and pointed, 
while Beranger's is simple and concise. 
Moore's point is prepared in the Attic 
flow of a most musical stanza ; that 
of Beranger is commonly set, with a 
Sjpartan succinctness, in the compass 
of a line. But enough of this : our 
business is with Beranger alone. Be- 
sides, we suddenly recollect that 

«* Heroic, stole Jokmom, tba •enteMtloiis.'' 

intimates, in the beginning of some 
essay or other, how often the truth of 
any proposition is sacrificed to its 
point; so, after having merely laid 
very careless hands on the most salient 
parts of both characters for a passing 
comparison, we shall leave every one 
to finish it for himself, minutely and 
at leisure ; and go on to say, that there 
are few of Beranger's songs which do 
not contain something to denote love 
of country, grief for her abasement, 
or pride in the remembrance of her 
military fame ; bold satire flung reck- 
lessly against the folly and tyranny of 
rulers, provoking sarcasms against the 
prejudices of the priesthood, or natural 
sentiment, whose pathos and truth re- 
commend it to the feelings of every 
one. We shall give in English several 
of these lyrics, to communicate some 
idea of the poet's character and philo- 
sophy, religious, political, and epicu- 
rean — ^just premising, in the mean 
time, that much of the native aroma 
of Beranger's lyrics must necessarily 
evaporate in the traduction. Let us 
choose at random: — 


A mean, ill-favoured, suffering wight. 
Flung on this earthly ball, 

I'm jostled down, and out of sight. 
Because so very smfdl ; 

A murmur, in my evil plight. 
My plaintive lips let fall: 

Sing, cries my Guardian-angel, sing ! 

Sudi is thy part, poor little thing I 
VoIh XXni.— No. 134. 

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2M Granger and hi$ Songt. [Ftb. 

The lordly chariot dauhs mt o*er 

With mud in passing^ by : 
I feel the insolence of Power> 

And Wealth*8 fastidious eye. 
Still are W6 doomed to crouch before 

The pride that bloats the bigh. 
Sinff, cries my Guardian-angel, sing! 
Such is ^y part^ poor little thing I 

With Life's precariousnera in TieWy 

My spirit is subdued ; 
Creeping* and cramped I here pursue 

A meagre livelihood : 
I worship Freedom ; but, 'tb true» 

My ^>petite is good. 
Sine, cries my Guardian-ang^U sing I 
Such is thy part, poor little thing ! 

Love, in my sorrow, could supply 

A solace for all pain ; 
Now with my youth he turns to fly. 

And will not come again : 
Befbre the glance of Beauty's eye 

My boeom beats in vain. 
Sinor, cries my Guardian-angel, sing ! 
Such is thy part, poor little thing I 

Yee, Song Is my vocation here. 

Or else I much mistake : 
Those whom my songs amuse or ^eer 

Will love me for their sake : 
When wine is bright and friends are near» 

And revel is awake, 
Sinff, cries my Guardian-angel, sing t 
Such is thy part, poor little thing 1 

Even th« convlviaKty of Beranger Is repuWican :— 


I waftt a commonwealth ; because 

Fve seen so many monarchs reign t 
And here I make one ; and its laws 

Shall be digested in my brain. 
Well have no commerce but in whie ; 

No judge without his jest ; and see 1 
The table's this Republic mine % 

And its device is, Liberty. 

Friends, fill each flowing glass, with glee | 

Now meets our Senate to discuss : 
And first, by a severe decree. 

Let dulne^s be proscribed with us. 
Proscribed/ nay, nay, this word of fear 

In our Atlantis must not be ; 
Dulness can never harbour here ; 

For pleasure follows Liberty. 

* In his situation, under the goTermnenty at the Uairersity of Paris. 

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1844 .] Btranger and his Song*. 9p7 

The sumptuary laws of mirth 

Rebuke the excess of luxury. 
Ordained by Bacchus and set forth t 

All human thought divine is £ree. 
Here in its worship every class 

Shall as it pleases bend the knee ; 
'Tis even allowed to hear a mass* 

Such is the will of Liberty. 

Nobles would mar our state*s repose ; 

Let ancestors remain at rest. 
No titles here ; not even to those 

Who laugh the most and drink the best. 
Should any> for his traitorous eAds^ 

Aim at a monarch's high degree^ 
We'll doom him dead — dead drunk, my friends. 

And save our cherished Liberty. 

Drink to our glorious commonweal^ 

So firmly fixed, so formed to stand I 
But ah I even now our people feel 

A hostile presence close at hand. 
It is Lizette, w|k> would impair 

Our state with despot rule ; and she 
Would be a queen, and she is fair ■■ 

Alas, alas, for Liberty I 

Beranger's songs aboundin evidences scriptive. His Clefs du Paradis is one 
of his extreme freedom of thought on of his most celebrated lyrics. By a 
religious matters, and his peculiar prin- laughing touch of his pen, with the 
ciples of universal toleration. His effect of one of those dissolving views 
tneology is not very orthodox ; but which have lately been the sources of 
we are sure the passages most repre- so many pleasant surprises, he has 
hensible in his verses emanate less changed the entire aspect of theology, 
from a coldness of real devotion or and brought forth a new Heaven, into 
a feeling of irreverence for what is which — with a benevolence which 
most sacred, than from an inappeasable should plead his nardon for the extra- 
desire to satirize a hierarchy which had vagance of the idea — he admits every 
eeetrived to make itself peculiarly dis- body indiscriminately. |This ma^ be 
tasteful to the French people, or to a very risible, or a very grave thing | 
scoff at those social dogmas, the accep- however, we are no casuists here, but 
tation of which Custom has made pre- merely translators ; and so let us jingle 


St. Peter once lost — the thing happened of late... 
The Keys of the skies as he (bzed by the gate ; 

What a singular tale for our metre I 
'Twas Margery saw them, in passing that way. 
And huddled them into her bosom one day .*- 

" Nay, Madge, I shall pass 

^' For A very great ass ; 
" Pray, give back my keys," said St. Peter I 

Madge loses no time, but immediately flies, 
And opens the wide folding-doors of the skies ; 

What a singular tale for our metre ! 
Then reprobate sinners and grave devotees 
Press onward and inward, and enter with ease. 

** Nay, Madge, I shall pass 

" For a very great ass ; 
^ Pray, give back my keys," sud St. Peter ! 

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20S Beranger and his Songs. [Feb. 

And thus in the midst of the jubilant crew, 
A Protestant comes, and a Turk, and a Jew— 

What a singular tale for our metre ! 
Then a pope, who appeared to be chief in the rout. 
And who, out for Madge, would have tarried without. 

'' Nay» Madge, I shdl pass 

" For a very great ass ; 
" Pray, give back my keys," said St Peter I 

Some Jesuits — and Margery thought it a sin 
Such hypocrite schemers should ever get in— 

What a singular tale for our metre ! 
With a resolute silence, and elbowing pace, 
Attiuned near the angels the uppermost place. 

'' Nay, Madge, I shall pass 

" For a very great ass ; 
" Pray, give back my keys," said St Peter. 

In vain a fool wishes, with sanctified air. 

That Heaven should display its intolerance there ; 

What a singular tale for our metre ! 
For, Satan himself is admitted at once. 
Being made a horned saint by the dame for the nonce. 

** Nay, Madge, I shall pass 

'* For a very great ass ; 
«' Pray, give back my keys," said St. Peter I 

Now Paradise soon became happy and gay. 

And the saint would partake of its joys as he may ; 

What a singular tale for our metre ! 
But, to Venffe the poor souls he shut out of the place^ 
The gates of the blessed were closed in his face. 

** Nay, Madge, I shall pass 

" For a very great ass ; 
** Pray, give back my keys," said St. Peter. 

Some of the daring features of the softened down a little. Its satire has 
Ibllowing sarcastic song have been a comprehensive range :-« 


Jove, waking one day, in benevolent mood 

Towards the world that we live in, it so came to pass 

That he put his head out of the window and viewed. 
And said : does their planet remain as it was ? 

Then, looking down closely, he saw, from afar. 

Where turned in a corner the lone little Star. 
If 1 know how their business continues to be 
Arranged upon earth, the deuce take me, quoth he. 

Ye black men, or white men, ye frozen, or fried — 

Ye mortals, whom I have created so small !— 
With an air of paternity Jupiter cried ; 

They pretend that I govern your moveable ball : 
But, please to remember, 'tis equally true 
That, thanks to the fates, ye have ministers too; 

And of these if I do not dismiss two or three 

From the gates of this plac^ the deuce take me, quoth hel 

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1844.] Beranger and hi8 Songs. 209: 

Hare I given you in Tarn, to adorn and to bless 
Your moments in peace, lovely Woman and Wine ? 

What I pigmies, and under my beard, to address 
As the God of vour Battles your maker divine! 

And dare, in invoking my name, to send forth 

The sword and the flambeau to ravage the earth ! 
If ever one cohort was marshalled by me. 
Or led to the charge, the deuce take me, quoth he ! 

Say, what do these dwarfs, sitting goi^eously there. 

On seats built so lofty with rivets of gold 1 
With foreheads anointed, and tyrannous air. 

These heads of your ant-hill, the pismires, Tm'told, 
Declare that I bless both their rights and their race. 
And that on your globe they are kings by my grace ! 

But, if the^r rule over the land and the sea 

By a sanction of mine, the deuce take me, quoth he! 

I feed other dwarfs of a sable costume ; 

But the stink of their incense my nostrils disclaim : 
They make of existence a pain, and presume 

To launch their anathemas forth in my name. 
In sermons, considered and quoted as fine- 
But Hebrew to poor comprehensions like mine. 

If I know these fiinatics' proceedings, or see 

What they drive at at all, the deuce take me, quoth he ! 

My children, pray ask me for nought : be content. 

The hearts of the good evermore are my choice. 
Apprehend not again that a Deluge be sent^ 

While ye love as ye live, and in loving rejoice. 
Go, scorn your patricians, your pharisees scout ;— 
But adieu ; 'tis reported that spies are about :* 

If for wretches like these I turn ever a key 

In the doors of the sides, the deuce take me, quoth he 1 

Can any thing be more excoriatiiu^ you hear sounding in everj one of the 
and mercuess than the scourge which following stanzas ? 


To kiss the public shrine, last week, 

Of a great parish saint I went. 
** Dost wish to hear his reverence speak?*' 

An old man says ; and I assent. 
He makes his signs i^aiust the sides; 

I mark his doings with a stare : — 
When lo ! the Saint appears and cries. 

With a rude tone, and ruffian air : 
Ap|nH>ach, ye pious devotees, - 
And kiss my relics, on your knees ! 

And then the bonj spectre erins 
And holds his sides with frenzied glee. 

* This aUndes to the system of es^nag?, muntf^ined in th^ French police, by 
thegovema»eiitt . 

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210 Beranffer and his 8ang$. \tA» 

These mmj ages, for my sins 

They've roasted me below> quoth he. 
But, 8 g^eat red-nosed priest, who prised 

All udntlj offerings and does. 
With read/ canning, canonized 

A demon's bones JPbr current use t 
Approach, ye pious derotees. 
And kiss my relics^ on your knees I 

I*was a juggler in my time, 

False witness, thief, and ribald knave. 
Then, to enlarge my sphere of crime, 

I was a feudal baron brave. 
Inflamed bv pillage, stem in ire, 

I burned the (£urohes, robbed the shrines. 
And tiiurew the saints into the fire ) 

My friends, admire just Heaven's deigns ! 
Approach, ye pious devotees. 
And kiss my relics, on your knees! 

Pray, kiss her Sunday saint-ship here. 

Beneath the velvet canopy ; 
She was a Jewish girl, my dear. 

With rosy cheek and raven eye ; 
Thanks to the graces of the dame, 

Ten prelates died mere heretics } 
Ten monks were treated much the same ; 

Well has she won her waxen wicks I 
Approach, ye pious devotees. 
And kiss my relics, on your knees 1 

Near hers, pray, mark this narrow skull-* 

Saint of another species still i 
He, from a burglar, rather dull. 

Became a headsman full of skill. 
Our kings, at times, for royal mirth. 

Employed him on their public days. 
In sooth, to him I owe on earth 

A martyr's punishment and praise. 
Approach, ye pious devotees. 
And kiss my relics, on your knees I 

Thus named their patron-saints, 'tis ours— i 

Our skinless bones exposed with care- 
To draw the people's cash in showers ; 

Our highest miracle is (here I 
Hark 1 Sathan calls ! 1 may not stay ; 

Adieu, my friends ; vobiscum pax! 
He sinks : soon on the shrine they lay 

Another golden crucifix ! 
Approach, ye pious devotees. 
And kiss the relics, on your knees ! 

Berang^ was no admirer of the a portion of the French national cha- 

policy of Napoleon during the latter racter, to the Emperor, and the period 

years of his government. Yet, in of those victories which enabled France, 

Vpite of his better judgment, we find directed by his energetic eenius, io 

him always reoarring, with something trample upon the prowess of the over- 

of the miutary pride which forms such crowed continent. Thie is Mi6tNi is 

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1844.] BertMffir and hU Sengi. %\ 1 

tb4 Mttg, «« Popular RMoUMtions/' pages. As om of tlli fiftt« htmH of 
which has already appeared in these the empire> he ungs 


Aronnd me sit my comrades old^ 

WhUe memory to the wine-^up warmsy 
And many a stirring tale is told 

Of our departed days in arms* 
Here in my cot I keep at last 
The banner of oar battles past. 

When shall it from the dust be free 

That dims its noble eolours three ? 

*Ti8 hid b«neath the lowly bed. 

Where poor and maimed at nicht I lie^wi 
That whi<m Ibr twenty years stUlsped 

From victory to victory ; 
When* orowned with lanrels and with flowarif 
It past o*er Europe's haughtiest towers. 

When shall it trom the dust be free 

That dims its noble ooloors three ? 

That glorious banner oould repay 

The blood that round it flowed in France ; 
Onr youth. In Freedom's happier day. 

Sported with its redoubted lance. 
Still let it show the despots how 
Glory is all plebeian now ! 

When shall it from the dust be free 

That dims its noble colours three ? 

Its Eagle mourns a hopeless fall. 

Worn by a flight so wild and far : 
Upwlth the Cock of ancient Gaul, 

To guide the fiery bolts of war. 
By France received to be, as once, 
The signal flag of Freedom's sons ! 

When shall it from the dust be free 

That dims its noble colours three? 

U soon shall guard the rights of meui 

Tired of the stunning march of war. 
Each Frenchman was a citizen 

Once, in its right, beside the Loire. 
Still our sole hope to shield and save» 
O'er all our frontiers let it wave ! 

When shall it from the dust be free 

That dims its noble colours three ? 

Thart, near my long-worn arms it lie 
An instant — friend of former years I 

Come, press my heart and srlad my eyeSf 
And staunch a veteran's fidling tears I 

Oh 1 well 1 know kind Heaven Will ne'er 

R^ect a waeping soldier's prayer. 
Yes, from the dost behold it fret 
That dimmad tta ndile d^knra thriil 

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212 BerangeramdhuSom^. [Feb. 

The first pkntuig of the vine in France hM been fiuioted with agreatdedof 


Said Brennns the Brave to his valorous Ganls : 

Let us blazon a triumph, the greatest of mine : 

From the fields of old Rome by her CapitoPs walls, 

I have brought — my best trophy — a root of ^e vine : 

Oh, ^e vine ! be it ever the bond and the crown 

Of the bright Arts, and Honour, and Love, and Renown ! 

Deprived of its bountiful juice we have fought. 

And conquered to quaff its red gushing afar. 
Be its tendrils for ever our coronals, wrought 

To grace the bold brows of the victors in war. 
Oh, the vine ! be it ever the bond and the crown 
Of the bright Arts, and Honour, and Love, and Renown ! 

The fame of our gay purple vintage shall run 

Thro* all climates — the wish and the envy of earth : 

In its nectar, imbued with the soul of the Sun, 

The arts shall be meetly baptized in their birth. 

Oh, the vine I be it ever the bond and the crown 

Of the bright Arts, and Honour, and Love, and Renown 1 

All lands shall yet bless the bright bounty of ours. 

When a thousand tall vessds with canvas unfurled — 

Theur freight shall be wine and their flags shall be flowers^ 
Still waft the gay bliss to the hearth of the world I 

Oh, the vine 1 be it ever the bond and the crown 

Of the bright Arts, and Honour, and Love, and Renown I 

Ye fair ones I dear beautiful despots, whose zeal 

Prepares the strong arms of our conquering bands. 

Pour its juice in our wounds, that our warriors may feel 
One more, softer balm from your delicate hands. 

Oh, the vine 1 be it ever the bond and the crown 

Of the bright Arts, and Honour, and Love, and Renown I 

Let union be with us ; and then shall we show 

To our neighbours around us, when peril's at hand. 

That we need but the poles of our vines to o*erthrow. 

Should they touch but our frontiers, the foes of our land* 

Oh, the vine! l>e it ever the bond and the crown 

Of the bright Arts, and Honour, and Love, and Renown ! 

Gay Wine-god I we hail thee our g^uardian and ffuest ; 

Be thv presence propitious to prosper our clime. 
Let an exile one day nrom his pilgrimage rest. 

And forget at our banquets his home for a time I 
Oh, the vine The it ever the bond and the crown 
Of the bright Arts, and Honour, and Love, and Renown I 

Then Brennus addresses a vow to the skies. 

And, piercme the ^ound with the steel of his lance. 

Plants the Vine while his warriors, with rapturous ejen. 
Behold, thro* Time's vista, the glories of France. 

Oh, the vine 1 be it ever the bond and the crown 

Of the bright Arts, and Honour^ and Love^ and Renown ! 

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1844.] Berangw and hi$ Songs^ 213 

In tbe next lyric we bare a lirely ex- any envy of the gratifications or dis- 

pontion of the poet's moral philosophy, tinctions which wealth or power could 

Simple in his tastes And oabitsy and give. With a self-consohnff estimate 

vith the mind of a genuine Epicurean of their true value, he lived poor and 

of the primitive stamp, he never cared content, 
to disturb the flow of his pleasures by 


Respect my independent mind. 

Ye slaves to vain pretension ! 
In Poverty's low vale I find 

Fair Freedom's modest mansion. 
Judge, by my song, how boldly strong 

Is o er me her ascendant. 
Lizette alone may smile when I 

Declare I*m independent. 

Here through society I stray 

Most like a simple savage, 
With but my bow and bosom gay 

To war with tyrants* ravage. 
In satire's guise, my arrow flies. 

Still in the strife defendent ; 
Lizette alone may smile when I 

Declare Tm independent. 

"We scorn the Louvre's flatterers — those 

Crouched menials, self-appointed 
To serve that Inn whose gates unclose 

Alone for guests Anointed. 
With lyre in hand but fools would stand 

Before those gates attendant : 
Lizette alone may smile when I 

Declare Tm independent! 

Power is a burden, sooth to say : 

A king's dull pomp I pity : 
He holds the captive's chain ; but they 

Are merrier and more witty. 
A ruler's lot I never sought ; 

For this be Love respondent : 
Lizette alone may smile wnen I 

I?eclare I'm independent. 

At peace with Fate I hold my way 

• And lightly laugh at sorrow. 
Rich in my daily bread to-day. 

And good hope of to-morrow. 
At eve's approach I seek my couch. 

And gaily make an end on't ; 
Lizette alone may smile when I 

Declare I'm independent. 

But soft I Lizette, in idl her charms, 

Comes with a face of crime in. 
And fondly, o'er my loving arms. 

Would fling the chains of Hymeq, 

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214 B0nmg9r and hii Shmg$. [Fek 

Tif thoi, metbinkf, an empire sinks \* 

No, no* my dear, depend on*! | 
Still keep the right to unile when I 

Declare l*m independent. 

The ** Letter** is an interestbg song, Rome. Fited in the baronial balk ttf 

for its impressive general moral ; for England with the hospitality due to 

the similarity of fate, in particular, a stranger and to misfortune, snd 

which a few years effected for the surrounded by many of his distin- 

voung princes who are the subjects of guished countrymen, does he look 

it — leaving the more fortunate of them with an eye of expectation to the beri- 

an exile like his kinsman from native tage of the little ** County Paris?'* Per- 

land and regal inheritance, — and, more baps he puts fS&itb in another Restors- 

intimately, for the present sojourn tion 1 Young Napoleon is supposed to 

in England of thb very little Duke write to the infant Due de Bordeaux, 
addressed by his cousin the King of 


All health, little cousin I from banishment here 

I have dared send this letter to yea : 
Good fortune has smiled on thy dawning career* 

And at thy nativity too. 
And bright were my own natal moments ; bow moob 

Let France and the universe say. 
The monarchs, adoring, surrounded my cottcb« 

Yet Fm at Vienna to-day. 

Your makers of verses with odes and with songs* 

Have rocked my young cradle ; fbr, these 
Are found like confectioners, ever in throngps 

Where Baptism dispenses its fees. 
The commonest liquid, dear cousin, was thine 

To sprinkle thy christianised clay. 
While mine was of Jordan's old river divine ; 

Yet Fm at Vienna to-day. 

The judges corrupt and degraded grandees 

Who prophesy wonders of tbee* 
By my cradle predicted aloud that the Bees 

Should prey on the Lilies fbr me.f 
The noble detractors who doubt or decry 

The worth of aught popular — they 
Once flattered my nurse I — but my star is gone by. 

And Fm at Vienna to-day. 

Of the leaves of the laurel my cradle was made. 

But merely of purple thine own f 
With sceptres as baubles. my infaocy played — 

My childish tiara, a crown. 
Oh, head-dress unlucky, since fatal mischance 

Took thine, O St. Peter, away I 
But still with my cause were the prelates of France : 

Yet I'm at Vienna to-day. 

* Napoleon's marriage with an Austrian archduchess was considered an event of 
evil omen for the fate of his empire. 

f The bees were the cognixanee ef tbe Bonaparte family ; the lilies of the Hoose 
of Bourbon. 

Digitized by LjOOQ IC 

1844.] Prestni Sudti Infiuenets wkl Proapect$ tfArt. 

f<a the marsbalsy they never, if I do not err, 

Will render illnstrious thj banner : 
To the strings of the Boorbon they snrely prefer 

The Star of the Legion of Honour. 
My Sire on their noble devotion relied 

For the grandeur and streoffth of our sway : 
Of coarse all their pledges could ne*er be belied ;^ 

Yet I'm at Vienna to-day. 

Shouldst thou near a throne have thy prosperous days ; 

Should mine be a lowly estate ; 
Rebuke the base parasites' incense and praise^ 

And point to my birth and my fate ; 
And say : my poor kinsman has taught me to fear 

That my fortunes like hb should betray ; 
Yon promised him lore and fidelity here ; 

Vet he's at Vienna to-day. 


It is with considerable pleasure we 
watd) the steady^ if slow progress of 
I more general diffusion of taste for 
tbe fine arts in this country. Within 
the last few years a new impulse 
hss been given to the public mind in 
this direction, and a lively interest 
awakened for the possession of works 
of art, which if encouraged, in a wise 
and enlightened spirit^ will become a 
pore and productive element of na- 
tional improvement. 

Art unions have contributed to give 
this impulse in no small degree, and 
by the distribution of interesting and 
well-executed engravings, have mtro- 
duoed into the homes of the middle 
classes, new sources of pure and re- 
fined enjoyment, and awakened a new 
sense by which they may be relished. 
The benefit thus conferred should not 
be overlooked by those, who, as lovers 
of true art, must regret the commer- 
cial character these societies have in 
some places assumed. 

This circumstance is especially to 
be regretted, as we cannot look for 
much improvement in public feeling, 
respecting the true dignity of art 
while her productions are made an ob- 
ject of mercantile speculation ; and it 

becomes the duty of all who are blest 
with a just appreciation of her enno« 
bling qualities to guard against the 
effects of this deteriorating principle^ 
by demonstrating earnestly and zeal- 
ously the true aim and elevated ten- 
dency of high art. We would not be 
understood to depreciate in the slight- 
est deffree what has been effected by 
art unions. Every attempt to impart 
a love of the beautiful is a step 
to a higher civilisation ; every ef- 
fort to cultivate a pure and perfect 
taste, is an extension of the means of 
happiness to mankind ; and we con- 
fess it w6uld have been difficult by 
any other means to have created so 
strong an interest in the diffusion of 
works of art as exists at present. This 
point has been gained; the next — a 
still more important one — is to raise 
the standard of public taste. For it is 
not enough that we desire to possess 
works of art — we must learn what class 
of art is conducive to the highest moral 
improvement, what constitutes the best 
and purest taste, by what means our 
natural feeling for beauty may be made 
to promote the higher interests of 
our nature. These objects can only 
be effected by an enlarged and careful 

* This refers to the defection of the marshals. 

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. Present States Influence, and ProspecU of Art. JFA. 

stady of art, in the widest signification 
of the term — by the growth of a better 
system of ideas respecting her influ- 
ence and capabilities. It appears to 
VLB, however, that both are misappre- 
hended by many who rank amongst 
her warm admirers. They look upon 
art as a sacred reminiscence of the 
past, admit her power to refine the 
taste, please the eye, adorn our homes, 
confer a g^ace on luxury ; but of the 
great moral effects she is capable of 
producing, of her power to address 
our best and noblest faculties, and as 
a manifestation of the divine light 
within us, we hear nothing. To en- 
courage the productions of art for 
public benefit, that is, to incite public 
feeling to great and noble thoughts, to 
give her efforts a consistent definite 
direction, to look with an eye of hope 
to her future development in some new 
path — of all this there appears no 
thought, no sign. Neither is the posi- 
tive utility of cultivating a taste for 
the beautiful recognised, as we should 
expect, in a country remarkable as 
Great Britain for the utilitarian ten- 
dency of its efforts — for, it has been 
observed at all times, when the grand- 
est style of design has prevailed, and 
particularly when the human figure 
has been most carefully studied, that 
the taste thus acquired has also shed 
its influence on every kind of manufac- 
ture. The cold and cheerless views 
above stated, are scarcely less detri- 
mental to the best interests of art, than 
her identification in the minds of others 
with mere luxury and sensualism. 
Both errors act injuriously upon the 
artist and the public ; on the first as a 
bitter discouri^ement to all his best 
efforts ; on the last, by lessening our 
reverence for the beautiful and true, 
which is the essence of all art. Prac- 
tical men look upon the results of 
the artist's labour as the mechanical 
production of a skilful hand, and have 
no perception of the inner life and 
spirit which in this form give utter- 
ance to the purest emotions of the 
heart and the loftiest conceptions of 
the imagination ; as little can they com- 
prehend that labours such as these, are 
a crown of glory on a nation's brow. 

It is true that all are not equally alive 
to the impressions of beauty, either b 
sound or form ; but none are so 
wholly divested of that sympathy with 
the external world, on which all art is 
grounded — ^none so devoid of the com- 
mon instincts of our nature, as to be 
blind to the presence of the quicken- 
ing spirit, which lives and breathes in 
every work of the Creator. And it 
is the manifestation of this quickening 
spirit which we call beauty, that is the 
one and highest aim of true art. Un- 
fettered by the various accidents whicfai 
in nature, frequently render the ex- 
pression of the beautiful a subordinate 
aim, it is the peculiar privilege of art 
to reveal it to our eyes in the most 
perfect form. 

This form, however, is not to be 
found in a mere imitation of common 
nature, but in that ideal only, in ihs 
conception of which the genius of the 
artist becomes a creative principle, and 
by which he raises art to a higher and 
more perfect nature. It is a want of 
perception of this high and undying 
mission of art, and of a recognitiiMi 
of the intimate relation and harmony 
which exbt between goodness and 
beauty, that we regret in those whose 
natiural sensibility and judgment en- 
able them to receive pleasure from the 
exercise of taste, and from the pro- 
ductions of the highest art. If ** per- 
fect taste is the faculty of receiving the 
greatest possible pleasure from Uiose 
sources which God originally intended 
should give us pleasure, and which are 
attractive to our moral nature in its 
purity and perfection,*** we cannot be- 
lieve, however changed may be the 
language in which it is embodied, that 
this precious faculty is less a principle 
of our nature, or less closely entwined 
with every emotion of our souls, than 
in those who have gone before us. 

But while we earnestly long for the 
burth of juster perceptions of the wide 
range and inexhausted powers of high 
art, we do not mean to assert that 
there is no improvement or pleasure 
to be drawn fk-om its less exalted forms 
also. The true imitation of indivif 
dual nature is a source of real plea- 
sure, because associated with some of 

* ** Modem Painters ;" by a graduate of Oxford. A work recently pablished, 
distinguished by an enlightened style of criticism, new to English readers, and by 
the profound observation of mature and knowled^ of art, displayed by the aqtbor* 

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1844.] Present SlaUy Influence, and Prospects of Art. 


the kiodliest feelings and aiFections of 
which mankind is susceptible. It is 
good, therefore, as far as it g^oes. But 
It does not follow that a taste for this 
class of art is as good and desir- 
able as that which exercbes the 
highest £u!alties of onr nature, ad- 
dKsses itself to our best affections, 
demands the quickest sensibility and 
most compreh^isiye habits of obser- 
vation. And we know that ''ideas 
of bean^ which are among the noblest 
that can be presented to the human 
miod, invariably exalt and purify it 
aceor^BMif to their degree" 

We have now to trace the chilling 
roflnenoe of a low standard of public 
taste and feeling for true art upon the 
mind and energy of the artist. Born 
as we are with an inextinguishable 
thirst for sympathy, the artist natu- 
rally finds the most persuasive ex- 
oitement to his best efforts, in the 
pablic appreciation of his labours, and 
in the public recognition of their uti- 
]]t7, as a means to a great end. The 
voice of enlightened and discerning 
criticism only, can re-assure the selt- 
distmst that invariably clings to true 
genios, and too surely throws its cold 
shade upon the mind, when the excit- 
ing moment of inspiration has passed 
awav. The tribute of affection may 
gladden, tho loving glance of ever- 
ready sympathy revive the anxious 
spirit ; but it is only the judgment of 
a circle beyond that which immediately 
encloses him, that can satisfy the doubts 
of the artist or on which he will allow 
himself to depend for a just and im- 
partial estimate. But to be faithful 
to his important vocation, the critic 
must himself possess a spark of the spirit 
which animates the artist, must have 
tasted at least of the same pure spring 
whence his inspiration has been drawn. 
He must have a soul to discern the 
thought which irradiates the artist's 
work, to oomprehend the emotion 
which has impelled him to pour forth 
the rich treasures of his heart and soul, 
and iqipreciate those delicate touches 
of ineffable beantv which stamp upon 
it the impress of mind and feeling. 
Enlightened criticbm stands like an 
interpreter between the artist and the 
public, and b^ the light it diffuses, 
guides and directs the nation in the 
exerdse of its judgment. Unhappily 
amoi^t us, the teachers themselves 
reqture to be taught^ and have yet to 

learn the real dignity of art — the 
high purposes to which her works 
should be applied — that they are to 
be encouraged as incentives to great 
and virtuous efforts in the public mind, 
and be received as an emanation of 
that spirit which vivifies every work 
of nature. 

The artist of our day has therefore 
but little encouragement in the know- 
ledge and sympathy of his critics, or 
in uie refinement of public taste. He 
knows that his best and noblest aspi- 
rations find no echo in the public 
mind, and, while taxing his energies 
to meet the stern realities of life, he 
is forced to yield to the capricious dic- 
tates of ignorance and fashion, to 
allow the deep under-current of his 
feelings to pass idly by, and to check 
the overflow which in happier times 
would pour forth with a rich and fer- 
tilizing power. 

It was not thus with the poet-artist 
of Greece, or the earnest hearts of the 
middle ages. In both these eras, it is 
true, that religion was the mother of 
art, that she cradled her offspring 
'with all a mother's love, and conse- 
crated her to the noblest purposes. 
But it was the voice of the people 
that called forth the highest energy of 
the artist ; and he, in responding to 
their call, found his best means of 
success in his warm sympathy with 
those to whose pious and patriotic 
feelings he gave expression. 

In all times when art has held her 
legitimate position, this influence has 
been reciprocal. And though it is in 
solitude and self-communion, that the 
deep and earnest spirit of the artist pene- 
trates the sublime mysteries of nature, 
and successfully invokes art to yield up 
her secrets to his researches, it is 
the sympathy of his fellow-men which 
fans the genial fire within him — it is 
in benefitting them he finds his noblest 
reward and triumph. 

In these two great eras the interests 
of art, and the feelings of the artist, 
were inseparably blended with those 
of the public, and to this perfect 
nnitv we are indebted for the lofty 
ideal of the Greeks, and the profound 
and touching piety which distinguished 
the Christian art of the middle-ages t 
both reflected the poetic spirit which 
animated the people generally, and tho 
artist was truly, and in the best sense^ 
<« the son of his age.*' 

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Present SiaUy Influencey and Proejpede of Art. 


Let ui then turn to theie great 
masterworks, and bj studjing the 
principles on which their perfection is 
grounded^ seek the only true means to 
renovate art, and by making the public 
familiar with a standard of pure style^ 
create a thirst for what is reallj good 
and elevated. It is to be regretted^ that 
hitherto the advantages to be derived 
from a studj of the works of the 
great masters of Greece have been 
confined to the comparatively few who 
are in circumstances to seek them 
from home ; still more is it to be re- 
gretted that those who are really anx- 
ious to encourage the studv of arty 
should apprehend that in holding up 
these monuments of pure art for con- 
stant study and example we run the 
risk of becoming mere servile imita- 
tors of antiquitjT. 

But this opinion is not only in direct 
opposition to all the highest authori- 
ties, but evidences an mdistinct per- 
ception of the principles on which the 
Greek style was foimded, and a for- 
getfulness of the circumstances^ which 
gave such vital energy to those princi- 
ples. ** Study," says Sir Joshua Rey- 
nolds, the great works of the great 
masters /or ever, — Study nature atten- 
tively ; but ahcay% with those masters 
in your company. Consider them as 
models which have approved them- 
selves to all persons, to all times, and 
as the highest and purest manifesta- 
tions of art." 

•* Style," says Howard, " is nature 
rectified by her own permanent stan- 
dard, and restored to her original per- 
fection—as often as we observe in na- 
ture, beauty and grandeur of form, we 
diall invariably find them in unison 
with the system of the Greeks which 
the student should labour thoroughly 
to acquire, that he may know how to 
study from casual models without 
being misled." In truth the best 
schools of Greece took nature her- 
self for their model, nature deve- 
loped by education to the highest 
perfiection. The public games at- 
tended by all classes, afforded them 
an opportunity of seeing the human 
form in every varied attitude of move- 
ittent and repose. And while the 
spectators acquired the knowledge 
which enabled them to appreciate the 
works of the artistj he learned those 
woadrotta coimbinations which he aftar-> 
wards produced in forms gf such p«r^ 

feet idea! beauty. Religion too lent 
her aid to make his works sacred in 
the eyes of the people— and as they 
were at once the embodied represen- 
tations of the divinities of his country, 
and the living records of the gre»t 
deeds of his countrymen, and thus be 
was stimulated to gain distinction, by 
the ennobling thought that he wss 
identified with the behest interests of 
his country, and liJioured ''not to 
please a patron, but to improve a peo- 

Should we then fear the result of 
the closest study of works produced 
under circumstances such as these; 
works which are the eloquent expres- 
sions of the deepest feelings of the 
human sonl — reverence for the Divine 
power, sympathy with the virtue of 
man? What sentence should ws 

Eass upon a poet, who should shot 
is eyes upon the great book of 
nature opened to him bv the deq>- 
searching hearts of Shakspeare and 
of Milton? In truth it is only by 
knowing familiarly the paths that oaTS 
been trodden before us, that we cin 
hope to strike out those unfrequented 
ways which we need not fear to ex- 
haust m the wide realm of nature. 

But the groundless nature of thu 
apprehension is, we hope, ere lonff to 
be proved by experience, as we hear 
witn unalloyed satisfaction, of a pro- 
jected plan of a Gallery of Casts in 
this city. A desire for collections of 
a monumental character is the best 
earnest of an increasing love of the 
fine arts, and in its gratification vt 
bail the best means of diffusing a know- 
ledge of true art. Casts being the 
fiuthful transcripts of their great ori- 
ginals, the utility of a collection to the 
student — (we do not limit the term to 
artists) — cannot be too highly esti* 
mated. The beautiful forms of an- 
cient mythology stimulate the fancy 
and awaken a thousand interesting as- 
sociations, which to men of edtu^tioa 
enhance their beauty and sublnnit^, 
and gradually reveal to them what if 
really great in art, and bow intimat«ly 
she is connected with all that thev love 
and reverence. This conviction it 
communicated firom tham to minds of 
a lower order, till it gradually nu e e ii li 
to a still wider circle, and is nnajly re- 
ceived by all. To the artist the Ud- 
liiy of at«dyiii|g these imnortal workib 
whose greateeat and wrfcctiea he 

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1844.] Present State^ Infiuenee, and Prospects of Art. 


odI/ perfai^ can fiilly Appreciate^ 
opens a thousand sources of imagery 
and beaatj, and afforda an inexhausti- 
ble field for the exercise of his imagi- 
nation. The hope, too> that his works 
win be given to a public^ who« in ac- 
qoiring Knowledge, have become com- 
peteot to appreciate them, will stimu- 
late his energy, and exercise a vivifying 
iofluenoe on his heart and power. 

We would therefore urge upon all 
tme lovers of true art to show their 
patitude to the originators of this 
laadable undertaking, by aiding, with 
heart and hand, in the gfood work. 
Especially would we solicit the as- 
sistance of our countrywomen, and 
u we have heard much of late of 
woman's too-confined sphere of ac- 
tion, may we be allowed to ask where 
she can find a more graceful one 
than in encouri^ng a love of the fine 
arts— how turn her gentle influence to 
a wiser and better purpose, than by 
setting an example in herself of a deep 
reverence for all that is beautiful and 
true; by nourishing every bud and 
lower of genuine feeling, and bv wel- 
coming every pure impime for the im- 

provement of her fellow beings. A 
few of her leisure hours can scarce be 
better employed, than in gaining a 
knowledge of art in its highest signi- 
ficancy, and penetrating into that ideal 
world, whose hope it has been well 
saad» is never clouded by despondenov ; 
whose faith is never troubled by 

In conclusion, our best wishes at- 
tend the succ^sful aecomplishment 
of this measure ; we see in it a pre- 
sent earnest of national improvement, 
and an important step towards remov- 
ing the difficulties which have hitherto 
retarded the advancement of art in 
this country. 

We look with " the prophetic eye 
of taste" from this sure foundation of 
a true knowledge of art, to a new de- 
velopment of her powera-ospringing 
from those deep sources of feeling 
common to all mankind ; from the 
love and admkation of the beautiful 
and good implanted in every human 
heart — and forming in every human 
soul the connecting link between our 
divine and earthly nature. 

BfiQutrra roa l&dibs— btiqitbttb roa oiatLBMix— tdb abt o» oamrEBSAtiai 
WHIST : n% BtfToav akd pbacticb* &c. 

Thcib never was an age-^we say it 
•dvisedly^we hope, not boastfully— 
10 eharaeteriaed by the all-sufficiency 
•f inteUeetual development, as tho 
tiBie we live in. Scientific Institu- 
tions, British Associations, Mechanics' 
Instantesy Societies for Useful Know- 
Mge, Penny Cyclopedias — ftdl in 
•bowers over the land. There are 
Gen^men's Ifagarines, and Ladies' 
^Ugaaines — tracts upon everv eub- 
ject^panpUeta on every topic that 
can amuse or agitate the public mind ; 
Mid, in fact, there n no condition of 
IS'e— nor, isieed, any passing mood of 
kmiaan nature, tiiac has not its peculiar 
l>tara*ure» a ddr cswd to its immediate 
^•■H el « mFe or aay "— of ** lively 
vimrB.'' SwyiMkof potitioal 

opinion has Its representative; Old 
'Tory, and " New England," conserva- 
tive and chartist — monopolist or free- 
trader — radical, federalist, or re- 
pealer — each has its printed standard 
of opinion, his " profession of faith," 
on a broad stamped sheet, written with 
various degrees of ability, and with 
some small exceptions, about the same 
measure of honestv and^ integrity. 
Information of every kind; instruction 
on every topic, pour hourly from the 
press. From the parallax of a star, to 
the constituents of a plum-pudding — 
from double equations to ** Etiquette 
for Ladies," — the whole is within the 
reach of every one, and he who runt 
may read. 

A Wgh order of mhtd^ wsA sm tx^- 

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tended power of inteUect^ may be ne- 
cessarj to follow science in its loftier 
flights ; much time and much labour 
are essential to the mastering of diffi* 
cult and abstruse- theories, and to the 
comprehension of involved and intricate 
statements, but for the ordinary sub- 
Jects which occupy the daily mind, no 
such powers are required. Moderate 
attention and common-place faculties 
will accomplish all that is needed, and 
if a man caimot hope to be a Herschel 
or a Humboldt — a Cuvier or a Fara- 
day«-he may at least be assured of 
acquirine all those gifts and graces, 
which adorn society, at the smallest 
expenditure of his time and his 

The little works whose titles we 
have appended to this paper, form an 
admiri^Ie illustration of the wants of 
the age. Time was, when people, by 
conforming to the habits of those 
about them, grew up in^nsibly to the 
practice of those social usages, they 
found in their own class of life ; the 
son of the peer, and the son of the 
peasant, were each led into that track 
which befitted their station, by the 
instinct of circumstance, and needed 
not the aid of any printed directions 
for their government and guidance. 
Not so now. Thank heaven! we 
have grown wiser than our ancestors, 
and to supply the accomplishments, 
which want of opportunity mav have 
denied us, we have a host of little 
volumes, ** elegantly printed** and 
** illustrated," devoted to our especial 
use. Not only are all the observances 
of societv, within doors and without^ 
axiomised for our benefit, but we have 
aphorisms upon all the details of dress- 
ing, dininff, dancing, and duelling-* 
for even this latter, strange to say, is 
enumerated amone the subjects of 
'* etiquette." We nave directions for 
behaviour, and ** hints for conversa- 
tion," so admirably adapted to each 
class and condition of life, that, should 
society onlv avail itself to the utmost 
of these blessings, a solecism in good 
breeding will be as rare in the worlds 
as once it was, unfortunately, the 

The authors of these volumes may» 
indeed, be reckoned among the bene- 
factors of mankind; he who propa- 
gates the habits of civilised life among 
the islanders of Tahiti, or Tonga, is, 
in our estimation^ effecting a far infe- 

rior service, to him, whose labours are 
nearer home, who, venturing boldly 
to attack the prejudices of his fellow 
men, dictates a new code of manners 
and conduct to some, or more hazar- 
dously still, ventures to reiterate those 
well-known truths, which others are 
unjust enough to depreciate from 
knowing. But, why indulge in far- 
ther preface ? Our lengthened pero- 
ration is, for aught we imow, a grave 
breach of ** etiquette," and may call 
forth the chastisement of our author 
in some future nineteenth e<Htioo. 
And now, to begin :— 

** The Gentleman's Pocket-Book of 
Etiquette, by Arthur Freeling."— The 
volume sets out with the following 
axiom : — '' Always seek the society of 
those above yourself, and if you can- 
not from your station obtun entrance 
to the best company, aim as near to it 
as your opportunities will permit" 
To the first clause of the sentence we 
give our hearty concurrence ; captiooi 
people will talk to yon of tuft-hundog 
or toad-eating, — never mind them— 
a lord is a lord ; and the effect of 
occasionally being seen with one will 
even subdue the critics, so disposed to 
censure you. As to the second partr— 
** that, if you cannot obtain admit- 
tance to the best company, you are to 
aim as near to it as your opportunities 
will permit," we confess ourselves a 
little at fault, and do not exactly oom- 
prehend our author's meaning. Does 
he, in this passage, favour that practice 
we occasionally witness in larffe cities, 
when a group of persons in tn6 street 
stand in patient admiration of the 
people in the drawing-room, while 
some more aspiring disciple of '' eti- 
quette," takes a view of the company, 
n*om the lamp post ? Is this being ''as 
near to it as your opportunities will 
admit?" — And is it, ''thus aspiring, 
you may ultimately reach the best ?* 

If we are rieht in our conjecture, 
the recommendation has at least the 
merit of novelty, and it is the first time 
we ever heard that the rails) of the 
area» or the window-sill of the dinner 
room, were equivalent to an intro- 

*' Let your manners," says he, *' be 
marked hj a perfect confidence." Of 
a truth, if you were to follow such 
practices as he already reoommeods, 
we agree with him perfectly — a timo- 
rous or bashful man wonld cota most 

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anhappj fignre in such situations, not 
to speak of the danger he would incur 
from the police. 

After some very sensible cautions 
on the subject of giving letters of in- 
troduction, he remarks that in pre- 
senting people to each other, you 
should be careful to introduce the 
lower to the person in the higher 
rank— an admirable rule, but which, 
unhappily, pre-supposes a degree of 
knowledge not always attainable — 
how, for instance, should a man act in 
introducing to each other the editors 
of two Repeal papers ? 

We follow our author to his chap- 
ter on morning calls, in which the 
following excellent advice is given — 
" In paying visits of ceremony, do not 
leave your hat in the hall, take it with 
you into the room ; and, except under 
particular circumstances, do not re- 
mam more than a quarter of an hour, 
or twenty minutes. When any visitor 
leaves the room, ring the bell for a 
servant to be in attendance, and open 
the street door, but if you wish to 
show any person particular attention, 
and are not occupied with other com- 
pany, it would be a great mark of 
deference for you to attend him half 
way down stairs, after having secured 
the attendance of the servant at the 
door ; this would, of course, only be 
done in extreme cases," &c. 

Here again, we go the whole way 
with our author, only thinking that 
onder the circumstances he has men- 
tioned, he has put the limits of the 
visit even too far ; for if, as he enjoins, 
"you are to ring the bSl whenever any 
visitor leaves the room, and accompany 
him half way down stairs," we deem 
fifteen minutes of this quite enough 
for any disciple of " etiquette." We 
don't enter into the abstruse question 
of the *' order of going," nor who is 
to ring first ; perhaps, as at bai* 
messes, the junior acts as fag. This 
wiU, doubtless, be explained in another 
edition, and we now pass to the consi- 
deration of the second clause, wherein, 
as a mark of deference, you are told, 
to proceed half way down stairs ; this, 
we regret to say, is far too loose, and 
inaccurate, for such an emergency. 
Suppose, for instance, you inhabit the 
ground floor — the "rez de chaussee" — 
are you to accompany your friend to 
the basement story, and see him out 
through the kitchen, or scullery — . 
VOL. XXIII.— No. 134. 

this, would pushing to attention, m 
" extreme cases," rather too far. 

Again, we are told that a certwn 
discretion is necessary as to the time 
of visiting— you should not call upon 
a person at three o'clock, if you are 
aware he dines ut that hour. Here, 
we join issue with our author at once 5 
the only possible reason we can see for 
visiting any man with such antedilu- 
vian habits, being the fact, that his 
dinner, may serve for your luncheon, 
for of course we need not say, no 
scruple is necessary in intruding on 
any man guilty of such a practice ; 
our fear on such occasion would be 
much more on the score of the 
" cuisine," than the convenience of 
such a Calmuc. 

" If,' however, on paying a visit, 
you are introduced to a room in which 
a part of the family are assembled, to 
whom you are unknown, at once an- 
nounce your name, and the individual 
to whom your visit was intended ; 
this," quoth he, "will prevent much 
awkwardness on both sides.** 

We very much doubt the "ration- 
ale" of this practice; we picture to 
ourselves a dashing guardsman, bent 
on giving a plausible reason for a 
morning call, to some people, with 
whose friends, only, he may have 
intimacy, coolly saying — " I am Mr. 
Forester, of the Coldstreams, come, 
to look after the governess!" How 
this is to " prevent awkwardness 
on both sides," we cannot possibly 

It is at the dinner table, however, 
he shines, and if there were a little 
less ambiguity in his expressions we 
might derive great benefit from his 
suggestions. " A gentleman," we are 
told, " should sit on each side of the 
hostess." This, to say the least of it, 
is a singular axiom, for how any one 
gentleman is to accomplish the feat, 
without the lady sits in his lap, we 
can't clearly comprehend, and even 
then, the position would be totally in- 
applicable to the purposes intended, 
for we are told, " the reason is, that 
some popular or prominent dish is 
usually placed at the head of the table^ 
which the hostess will need assistance 
in carving." By what legerdemain 
a man so placed can cut up a turkey, 
or even slice a haunch, is beyond our 
conception, and we only pray, that if 
we should ever be so situated, neither 


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*' Phil" nop George Cruikshank may 
be there to see. 

« Use a silver fork, in eating fish III" 
In the name of every thing not 
Hottentot, when should vou use any 

other except in hay-maJdng, if you 

be partial to that pursuit? 

The cliums of other branches of 
*' etiquette" compel us, unhappily, to 
pass over many admirable suggestions 
m this excellent little volume : such, 
for instance, as the caution against 
defending a friend, should you hear 
him attacked in society, and we must 
close our brief remarks with one soli- 
tary quotation. 

'* Many persons" — it is Freeling, 
<* loquitur" — " have a foolish habit of 
drumming on the table with their 
fingers, or on the floor with their feet, 
significantlv termed— the devil's tattoo ; 
^8 is as often the result of absorption 
of mind as of vacancy of intellect." 

To our thinking, there might be 
another explanation of the practice, 
and we half fear that our author, 
in conducting his friend down stairs, 
has gone the whole wav, and turned 
into the servants* hall for an illustra- 
tion. In conclusion, he expresses a 
hope that his work may be an amus- 
ing companion ; — a wbh which, as far 
as regards ourselves, we beg to assure 
him, is perfectly realised. 

The "Etiquette for Ladies," we 
must dismiss with little comment ; for 
it is merely the adaptation of the max- 
ims in the preceding volume, to the 
circumstances of the softer sex ; save 
that we find in the volume devoted to 
them, that Champagne, Burgundy, and 
Hock, are discussed, with their relative 
titnes of appearance, when, in our 
ignorance, we seemed, these things 
more pertaining to the dinner than the 
drawing-room. Nor are we aware of 
any peculiar principles of etiquette 
adapted to the fair, unless some of the 
following may be deemed such. 

" Ladies, with long thin arms, may 
remove their unpleasant effect, by wear- 
ing over their dress, sleeves of gauze, 
crape, or lace, fittine close at the wrist, 
and secured by rich bracelets. 

"Eschew, as you would evil, these 
clumsy appendages, termed mud boots : 
they must have been the contrivance of 
some gouty dowager, and for such only 
are they allowable." 

And again— 

" FrilU and necklaces relieve a long 


neck ; but short-necked ladies should 
avoid every thing that served to contrast 
the distance between the shoulder and 
the chin." 

Are these, then, precepts of Eti- 
quette ? Or, are they not the coun- 
sels of a marchande des nuxHes, and 
such unhappily is the greater portion 
of the volume, in which we look in vidn 
for the racy style and pleasant know- 
ledge of life, so conspicuous in its twin 
brother. And now, discarding these 
minor deities, let ns approach some- 
thing more to our taste — ^the art of 
Conversation ; and, before we go 
further, let us apologise to the au- 
thor. Captain Orlando Sabertash, for 
classing him even, in the title, with 
such company. He is really a clever 
fellow, and vrrites with the easy off- 
hand freedom of a " beau Sabreur." 
All we know of him is, that he was a 
writer in " Eraser's Magazine," where 
his sketches on "manners and things in 
general," displayed a deal of smart and 
witty observation, with fiu* more 
acquiuntance with the world and its 
inhabitants, than falls to the lot of 
most magazine scribes. 

After a little pleasant badinage on 
the merits of conversation as an art, 
he opens thus :— 

" The tone and spirit of modera 
fashion are, we think, decidedly hostile 
to cheerful and interesting conversa- 
tion. And though we may be told that 
fashion has tended to polish and reiine 
manners, and to spread far and wide the 
elegant courtesy of deportment for which 
all persons of g^d breeding are distin- 
guished ; we must still demur to the pro- 
position. Good manners result nrom 
knowledge, good sense, good feeling, 
and the habit of good society ; whereas 
fashion cares not a straw for sense, feel* 
ing, or learning ; and only lays down a 
rule of manners, which the initiated 
must acquire and act up to, and whidi 

Srescribes at present a stiff, vapid, 
lasS kind of hauteur, totally inconsis- 
tent with healthy, sanguine, and elastic 
feeling, but which is easily acquired by 
all those who are destitute of the veiy 
qualities from which elegant and refinsd 
manners can alone spring. The eier- 
tions of fashion have always been direeted 
towards the extinction of whatever is 
elevating in our nature. All generous 
enthusiasm, all chivalrous sentune&ts, 
are unfashionable. Even cheerfulness, 
good humour, and hilarity are banishjd 
from polite society, in order thAt m 

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digmtj of fashionable persons may not 
be compromised b^ sympathising in the 
joys or the woes, m the pleasures or the 
sorrows of ordinary mortals. 

** This is by far the worst part of 
£uhionabIe traming ; for its effects tend 
to destroy or relax all the finer'fibres of 
the heartZ--those that should receive and 
respond to the impressions produced by 
whatever is great, good, beautiful, or 
noble. It tends, for the same reason, 
to dry up the sources of imagination, 
which, when pure, bright, and sparkling, 
lead us to build fabrics of beauty, and 
temples of virtue and of happiness, even 
on the slenderest foundations. But 
fashion smiles at this. Instead of the 
free, open, frank, manly, and cheerful 
deportment, that should distinguish the 
conduct and bearing of man towards 
man, what do we find? Affectation, 
affectation, affectation ! Towards per- 
sons of rank, men and women — I beg 
pardon — ladies and gentlemen I mean — 
are all smiles and urbanity: towards 
strangers, they are haughty and vapid 
exdusives ; affecting airs of fooush 
grandeur, that s^ve way to profound 
obsequiousness the moment they find 
they have been acting their little part 
before their superiors in fashionable 

" It is only in small coteries in which 
persons have been long shaken together, 
HO to express myself ; or when in high 
rank chance assembles parties above the 
influence of fashion and the morgue 
trufoeratiquet that British talents for 
society can be truly appreciated. Most 
of the splendid entertainments given in 
the season about town are little more 
than regular tributes paid for a certain 
station in society ; or due aeknowlede- 
ments for similar value received at the 
hands of others. Alm«ek's and some of 
the best balls look almost like beauty 
Wdors, splendidly supplied, no doubt, 
where young ladies, after being well 
drilled in fashionable display, and re- 
lieved, as much as E^nglish ladies can be 
so relieved, from all the better feelines 
and affections of the heart, are regularly 
put up to market, like any ordinary 
commodity, or reduced to serve as mere 
bait to parental ambition." 

Now, this is not only true — but it is 
truth, well and boldly enunciated. 
The vice of a poor and heartless code 
is admirably exposed, and the delin- 
quents themselves laid open to the 
lash. The conversation of a modem 
dinner, not only is brought down to the 
low level of the meanest proser pre- 
sent, but any endeavour to elevate its 
tone or exalt its spirit is denounced at 

once as vulgarity. The topics which 
can be discussed are few and uninte- 
resting ; they have neither freshness 
nor variety, while the measure of 
capacity to which they are reduced, 
is of that calibre, that ensures the 
talker, as among the least informed of 
the company. Clever men and clever 
women retire within themselves, and 
retreat from the discussion of matterSf 
where the most empty "Fat " is their 
equal, if not superior. Hence, the 
broken, unconnected sentences— the 
'* bold disjointed chat," of what is 
termed good society, and the absence 
of every trait of flashing wit, happy 
illustration, or even shrewd remark, 
by which it is characterized. It is a 
constant subject of regret among old 
people in Ireland, that the race 
of conversationalists is departed — that 
the brilliant talkers of former days — 
the Currans, the Bushes, the Plun- 
kets, the Grattans, are no longer to 
be met with — that a prosaic spirit of 
wearisome common-places, has suc- 
ceeded to those delightful meet- 
ings — where eloquence and poetry, 
polished scholarship, and sparkling 
wit, abounded — ana where the distin- 
guished ornaments of the bar and 
seriate, achieved triumphs as great as 
ever they accomplished before the 
arena of public opinion. Let them 
not grieve over these things — better 
far for those bright spirits, that they 
disappeared from the earth, when the 
sun of their glory was but setting, 
and had not sank below the hori- 
zon. Better — a thousand times bet- 
ter, that they enjoyed to the last, the 
delightful communion of mutual 
tastes and sympathies ; and lived not 
to hear their wit, their pleasantry^ 
their choice repartee, their chastened 
wisdom regarded as so many solecisms 
in society ; and know themselves pro- 
nounced beyond the pale of modern 
good breeding. 

That we exaggerate nothing in this 
assertion, we could at once prove by 
referring to those, who confessedlv are 
the most brilliant conversers of the 
day, and see, how they are estimated 
in what is called " society." Lord 
Brougham and Lord Lyndhurst, the 
Reverend Sydney Smith, the wittiest 
men in England, are deemed bores I 
actually bores ! by nine out of ten of 
your fashionable diners-out — the white 
neckcloth gentlemen, who lisp a sen- 

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tence between soup and fish^ and 
accomplish a ten-year old truism be- 
fore the dessert ; — sneer at the concen- 
trated wisdom, eloquence, and wit of 
the most gifted talkers in Enghind. 

We have descended — there is no 
mincing the matter — to the very lowest 
standard of imbecility and platitude ; 
and there is only one hope for us, that 
the present generation of dinner eaters 
may die oif, from pure ennui ; and a 
healthier race succeed. But we have 
left our friend Sabertash too long 
in abeyance, and must return to him. 
The following short extract is much 
to our liking: — 

** Franklin says, that you must uever 
contradict in conversation, nor correct 
facts, if wrongly stated. This is going 
much too far : you must never contra- 
dict in a short, direct, or positive tone ; 
but with politeness, you may easily, 
when necessary, express a difference of 
opinion in a graceful and even compli- 
mentary manner. And I would almost 
say, that the art of conversation consists 
in knowing how to contradict, and when 
to be silent ; for, as to constantly acting 
a fawn